The Great Hiatus
by BaskervilleBeauty
Summary: After the incident at Reichenbach Falls, Holmes makes his way across the mountains. A serendipitous meeting will save his life - but what will he do now? Rated for mature themes. Complete!
1. Across the Alps

After six days of desperately making his way across the mountains, not sleeping, with only the sun and the stars to guide him, six days of scavenging for food above the tree line, six days of drinking melted snow and ice – he finally spotted another human being.

It was a peasant, driving a cart filled with baskets and chests, pulled by an aging horse. There was no point in trying to make conversation; ragged clothes and a bleeding lip were the universal calling card of trouble. With one last burst of energy, the battered man hurled himself onto the back of the horse-cart, and hoped that the peasant would not mind such an imposition on his generosity. Within seconds, the darkness took him.

The trap wheeled sharply around the bend, and both driver and his companion let out growls of frustration. It had begun to pour down, the kind of driving rain only springtime brings. In front of them, a farmer's cart rattled along slowly, sinking its heavy wooden wheels into the mud. The trap slowed, and both passengers shrugged into their overcoats in anticipation of a good soaking.

The convoy thus continued, past an avenue of trees, and down a hill. The horses picked their way through the mud with disdain.

Suddenly, as though the driver had forgotten his way, the cart swerved into a lane leading through the fields. His cart lurched, and a heavy object fell into a spreading puddle in the middle of the main road. The trap, which had been following stopped abruptly to avoid the object. The driver and his female companion hopped out. The driver tried to run after the cart, which had now picked up speed, as though the old mare knew it was the way home. The woman bent down over the object. The object suddenly moved, and she understood it was a man, wrapped in old blankets.

Clucking in frustration, she bent over to unwrap the man. His face was bruised and swollen. From his dry lips emerged a hoarse sound, partially drowned by a loud crack of thunder. Straightening up, she looked at her driver, now returned from his futile chase, and grimaced. "He's alive. And he's English. We'll have to take him."


	2. Broth

Chapter 2

_**Author's note**: Thanks to Smoke for being my very first reviewer! Warm fuzzies! _

_I expect this chapter will be longer than the first. Nothing you recognise is mine. _

She had placed him under the crumbling canopy of the state bed on the ground floor. His clothes were systematically cut from his body, to avoid moving him any more than necessary. Although the fire was lit, they were not burned. As the footman moved to bathe her guest, she collected the rags and bent over them at a table. Moving quickly from one pocket to another, she placed his personal belongings in a small heap on the tablecloth. A watch, a cigarette case, some papers: all were carefully examined.

A maid entered, her footsteps echoing within the cavernous room.

"The medicine chest, ma'am. Where shall I put it?"

A silent gesture directed her to the table at which her mistress was seated. "Take the clothes and make measurements. Tomorrow, you will take them to a tailor in the city."

The maid thus dismissed, the mistress turned to the footman at the bedside -- "Are you finished there?"

She crossed the room, holding a small bottle and a cloth in her hands. Her guest lay bare-chested on the bed, exposing his bruised sides and scratched arms. His breathing was ragged and an occasional moan escaped his cracked lips. The small bottle was opened, releasing the overpowering smell of alcohol into the stifling air. As she rubbed the solution into his arms, she paused, frowning at the insides of his elbows. Looking up at the footman, she said,

"Go and get two cords. We may have to restrain him."

As the rain continued to storm the walls of the house, and the fire grew dimmer, however, the man on the bed slipped into a motionless slumber.

His body felt leaden. Even his eyelids refused his initial efforts to open. Only one eventually obeyed, revealing forms bathed in a soft grey light, swimming slowly from side to side. His aching chest fell in a groan that escaped his throat with the sound of creaking iron gates. His eyelid fell closed, worn out by the effort.

His sense of hearing was made strangely acute by the pain. His ears were now his only connection to the world. The pain, the weight of exhaustion and hunger had rendered him virtually immobile. He registered the sound of footsteps: _A woman. Not much over five feet. Nearby_.

His heart began to race, and with it, his thoughts. His brain screamed for him to move, to open his eyes, to be alert in the face of danger. But after days of abuse, his body betrayed him.

"Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr. Holmes. I expect you will want some breakfast?"

The sound of a human voice shocked him, and it took a few moments for the words to filter through. They were not what he had expected.

"Some broth, then."

He felt something hot touch his lips, and then, quite of its own accord, his body began to drink, swallowing the hot liquid that poured into his mouth, hungry for more. He felt it drip down his chin, onto his chest. In his mind, he solemnly recited the most common poisons and the times they began to take effect. His stomach did not seem to care. Suddenly, the liquid stopped.

"I think that will be quite enough for now."

He tried to open his eyes again. This time, both eyelids obeyed, revealing to him that he was in a bed, with a woman sitting beside him, holding a steaming bowl and an empty ladle.

"You may have some more later. I take it you haven't eaten in some days now?"

It was less of a question than a statement, and he cursed himself for getting into that peasant's cart and allowing himself to lose vigilance. He frowned, but regretted it immediately; his face began to pulse with renewed pain. He turned his head to look around him, and felt the room spinning. He shut his eyes quickly, and his throat made that abominable creaking noise again.

"Rest."

It was a command his body was more than willing to obey, despite his own better judgement. It did not even start when his brain suddenly posed the question_, Why English?_ By that time, his body was again asleep.


	3. The Obituary Notice

Chapter 3

He woke to the sensation of hot liquid coating the inside of his mouth. His body was more willing to respond this time, and he jerked his chin against the spoon, spilling broth onto his chest. He brought his arm up to rub his eyes, but it made contact with the bowl, which spilled all over the woman administering it and the bed. She quickly crossed over to a table, where she began to blot at her skirts with a linen napkin.

Her back was now turned, which gave him an opportunity to escape. Quickly squeezing his fists to test the return of some self-control, he found that his body had once again returned to the service of his mind. He leapt out of bed, running headlong into the maid, who had just entered the room. The servant yelped in surprise and fear at the sudden appearance in front of her of a tall gaunt man in a nightshift. The movement had been too sudden, however, and his head began to spin. He reached out to steady himself, finding only the maid, who began to scream in earnest.

"Do try and restrain yourself from molesting my servants, Mr. Holmes!" The words could have been spoken in jest, but as the small woman crossed the room, the tone of her voice was steely. She turned to the maid.

"You may go fetch fresh linens. And you –"she turned to him, "– sit down. Now."

His experience of women told him that it was best to obey. His head still spinning, he sat down on the chair she offered him with an imperious gesture.

She tossed him a blanket and crossed her arms. Fixing him with a stare, she asked,

"Well? Have you an explanation?"

It was a ludicrous question. Had he been in a fit state of mind, he may have begun a lecture on logic and argument. However, with his vision swimming, pain shooting through his limbs, and the stale smell of broth assaulting his raw senses, he could only pose a ludicrous question back.

"Were you not trying to poison me?"

His interlocutor quite unexpectedly began to laugh. She turned back to the table and returned with a newspaper page, torn out and folded across the width. She held out the page to him, still smiling, tilted her head, and asked,

"How can I kill you if you're already dead?"

He stared at the open page, his eyes finding his own name and the tragic details of his death at Reichenbach Falls. A long and maudlin summary of the heroic adventures of his short life followed, as well as a triumphant paragraph at the end expecting the criminal circle of one Professor James Moriarty to be brought to justice. He found the date – early May, 1891. He was thirty-seven years old. He couldn't help but laugh.


	4. Letters

_Author's Note: Thanks to coolpuella and Haley Macrae for reviewing – I feel so popular! I'm experimenting with line breaks here, as my asterisks didn't show up in the previous chapters. As always, I own nothing you may recognise, and much of what you don't, so let's play "spot the intellectual reference," and tell me where I got the names! _

**Chapter 4**

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SIR STOP REMEMBER FRIENDS REMEMBER FAMILY STOP YOUR BAGGAGE RETRIEVED BUT DAMAGED STOP CONTENTS SALVAGEABLE STOP ADVICE STOP YOURS ETC BBSTOP

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BB STOP WRITE TO DIOGENES STOP MH STOP

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Mr. Mycroft Holmes

The Diogenes Club

London

May 8, 1891

Dear Mr. Holmes:

By a strange coincidence, I happened across your brother in the road while returning home two days ago. His papers told me his name, and his visage told me of your relationship. He was obviously in need of assistance, and even now, his condition is cause for some worry. He has driven his organism to its last strength until it has given out. The scars on his arms are fresh, and as the poison leaves his body, it incurs more damage. I need not remind you of my experience with that venomous substance. Steps have been taken to prevent him from doing harm to himself and his surroundings.

I understand from the newspaper reports and also your brother's ravings that he may be in some danger of his life. I have not contacted a physician for that very reason. I believe that he may need some money and your assistance in a professional capacity when he recovers. In the meantime, I will attempt to help him in accordance with my own limited means.

I feel sorry to renew our acquaintance in such disturbing circumstances, but I feel sure that your advice will be invaluable. I would also beg you not to mention this to my uncle, if you should see him. I believe that the situation warrants the utmost discretion, particularly at such a delicate time.

Yours etc,

Beatrice Bassano

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Beatrice Bassano

Villa Il Tatti

Tuscany

May 9, 1891

Dear Miss Bassano:

You were wise in contacting me immediately. My brother very likely remains in grave danger of his life, and utmost secrecy must be maintained. I am relieved that he has found his way into such capable company. Rest assured that when my brother recovers, he may rely on my assistance in all matters.

You were also very wise not to contact your uncle, as he remains preoccupied with the coming election. I have calculated his odds of success to be marginally positive, but as you have so perceptively guessed, this depends on no more scandals being revealed.

This address is quite secure, and you may send me whatever correspondence is relevant. In all things, try not to arouse suspicion.

I remain,

Your faithful servant,

Mycroft Holmes.


	5. You should have asked me

**Chapter 5**

_Thanks to Haley Macrae and Lindsay for reviewing. As regards the last chapter, I made a wee mistakie with the dates. I'm thinking they should be May 13, and 15, respectively. Also, the Villa Il Tatti comes from the play, The Old Masters, by Simon Gray, which I had the pleasure of seeing in London this summer. I owe a debt of gratitude to , The Italian Strand Magazine and Sherlock Peoria for concordances, scholarly articles and inspiring questions. Having this much fun while doing research should be illegal! And now, on with the motley. Remeber to review!_

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The latest wave of nausea had subsided, and Holmes was left with an excruciating headache and an irregular heartbeat that shot waves of discomfort through his limbs. His wrists and ankles were still sore, even though the rope had been removed a day ago. The ointment assaulted his raw senses with the smell of camphor.

Holmes winced as he recalled the unfortunate series of events that had led to his being thus brutally restrained. The mistress of the household had left the room and he had decided to take advantage of her momentary absence to reclaim his belongings. He had reached the table where the small heap lay when she returned. She hadn't been angry. She asked him what he was looking for, and he had described the long silver case, no more than three inches wide. His heart was pounding, and tiny beads of sweat had begun to form on his upper lip. She had smiled ruefully, and shown him the case. It was dented in the middle, and when he had opened it, he saw that his exertions had been for naught. The needle was bent and twisted and the glass cylinder had shattered, spilling all the precious fluid onto the blue velvet lining. A rush of blood hit his head and he was filled with rage and despair.

"You have done this!" he had shouted. And she retreated behind the table, and rang for her servants. And when they came running he had not had the good sense to sink to the floor and to apologise for such vile behaviour to a lady. No, he had started having convulsions, and they had to tie him up, because she had looked at him and stated that she was not in the habit of giving drugs to addicts.

Risking another wave of nausea, he turned his head and looked at her. She was seated with her back to him at a small writing desk, illuminated by a stream of sunlight that came in across the floor from the tall windows. Her sleeve rustled as she dipped her pen in the inkwell. She was certainly no monster, although her methods were questionable, at best. _Women_, he thought, and snorted.

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr Holmes."

Startled by the sound of her voice, he cleared his throat. _Subtlety and gentlemanly decorum_, he thought. "I merely wondered what you were doing."

"I would have thought that was clear enough."

"Aside from the fact that you were born and raised in Sussex, are in your late twenties, and have a husband in the Foreign Office, I know nothing at all about you." He cleared his throat again.

Putting down her pen, she swivelled around in her chair to look at him. At length, she smiled. "All this by way of introduction? Really, Mr Holmes, you should have just asked me."

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	6. What had become of me

**Chapter 6**

_Author's Note: Thank you to Haley Macrae and Estriel of EstrielandJenna fame. I didn't mean for the last chapter to be so evil in its cliffhanger ending. I generally write these chapters at work, so they're only as long as I can write in an hour. This one is longer, as it has lots of explanation, but I promise we will get to action in the next chapter. Much of Holmes' upcoming account is taken directly from the Adventure of the Empty House, as well as the hypotheses of some Italian Sherlockians. _

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Holmes took it as a sign of the quicksand that comprised the feminine temperament that she continued to smile. He could not, in his present state, determine whether the smile was genuine, or the cruelly cutting kind society ladies were known to use.

"Well, as long as we are playing at gross misconceptions, it seems to be my turn. Aside from the fact that your name is Sherlock Holmes, you have a brother named Mycroft, and a friend named Watson, an enemy with the initial 'M,' who may indeed be one with the 'Moriarty' of your delusional ramblings, and very little money indeed, I know nothing at all about you." She came to perch on the side of the bed and smiled again at his look of wonderment. She held out her hand. "My name is Beatrice Bassano. I was indeed married, but it is my uncle who is in the Foreign Office. And I when I was growing up in Sussex, I was taught that a gentleman never comments on a lady's age."

He took her proffered hand and nodded towards it in the nearest approximation of a bow he could manage while lying down. Within his own thin, bruised hand, it was soft and white. She was dressed well, though modestly, in a dark purple gown. Her nearly-black hair was dressed simply, lacking any of the ornament he had seen fashion dictate. She was not a woman of striking beauty, but there was something pleasing in her aspect: a frank brow and honest eyes that now looked at him, crinkled in mixed amusement and curiosity.

He began to recite aloud. "My name you read in my documents. Dr. Watson's name must have been..."

"He authored your obituary," she finished for him. "The feeling with which those words were penned assured me he was your great friend. Yet, here you lie, while no one in the world is aware of your continued existence, and indeed, improving health." Instead of a reply, Holmes looked away. Seemingly oblivious, she continued, "Who is Moriarty? Is he the reason the world presumes you dead?"

Holmes shuddered, remembering the chilling scream that echoed up the Falls. "Yes." He quickly drew himself up as if to emphasise his point. "But I cannot tell you any more."

Miss Bassano threw her arms in the air. "Oh no, not this again. Surely you do not continue to believe that I have rescued you from a muddy road in a rainstorm, nursed you back to health, endured your insolence, only to carry out some malicious plot on your life? I would have thought that my very knowledge of your brother's existence would have cleared me of suspicion." She sighed. "To what, then, do I owe the pleasure of having the world's first consulting detective in my State Bed?"

Holmes answered that question with one of his own. "How do you know my brother?"

Somewhat taken aback, she answered, "There is hardly anyone in the government who does not know your brother." This was not an informative answer, but Holmes seemed suitably mollified, for at length, he began.

"No doubt the English newspapers have been filled with the sensational accounts of the trial proceedings against the minions of the 'Napoleon of Crime'. I have spent the last few years unravelling the web of criminal intrigue spun by that Professor James Moriarty. When at last I had tracked him to Switzerland, I had little doubt that any confrontation between us would end with a death – I did not know whose.

Let it not be said that the late professor did not possess the manners of a gentleman. Indeed, he graciously allowed me to write a note to my friend Watson, which I also believed would be my last act in the world of the living. There was a duel of sorts, a match of strength for strength, with no weapons drawn between us. We tottered together upon the brink of the fall, when at last I slipped through his grip, and saw him fall onto the swirling waters below.

I knew, however, that there were at least three others who had sworn their murderous vengeance on me. As I took shelter on a ledge, observing the ensuing investigation that led to the inevitable conclusion of my death, I planned my disappearance. If all the world was convinced that I was dead, my pursuers would take liberties, and would soon lay themselves open so that I could destroy them. Yet, while I lay imagining my own safety, a huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over into the chasm. As another stone struck the very ledge upon which I was stretched, within a foot of my head, I saw the outline of a man against the darkening sky. Even that one glance had told me how dangerous that confederate was. From a distance, unseen by me, he had been a witness of his friend's death and of my escape. He had waited, and then making his way round to the top of the cliff, he had endeavoured to succeed where Moriarty had failed.

When I saw that grim face look over the cliff, I knew that it was the precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don't think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time to think of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path. I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and fell in with some smugglers who took me over the border at the Susten Pass. The cold and rain cut off my route many times, with roads closed due to flooding. Starving and desperate, I took my chances when I threw myself into the back of a passing peasant's cart. I assume that is where you found me..."

Visibly tired, Holmes leaned back into his pillows. Miss Bassano nodded slowly.

"Yes, you tumbled out of the back of the cart on the road from Sesto. You lay in the mud, blocking the road for my trap. You were mumbling something in English. I had no choice but to take you in."

"And so now I am in Florence?"

Miss Bassano smiled. "You are located in the State Bedroom of the Villa Il Tatti, not three miles from the centre of Old Florence. Welcome to Chiantishire, Mr. Holmes." Rising from the bed, she once again adopted the commanding tone Holmes had heard before. "You may ask more questions tomorrow. For now, you must rest."

To his own surprise, Holmes was inclined to comply.


	7. The monotony of existence

**Chapter 7**

_Author's Note: I still don't own Mr. Holmes or his world, although I feel quite justified in taking him for a stroll though a time Conan Doyle did not describe for us. As per the previous chapter, Chiantishire was the nickname of Florence in the Gilded Age, owing to the large number of British ex-patriates (the Anglobeceri) who took up residence in its villas. As we shall see, Miss Bassano is one of them. As always, I enjoy receiving reviews; I have made the fatal error of starting this fanfic from the beginning, and I find I am nearing the end of my own ideas for the action – I would love to hear your opinions as to what Holmes does during his hiatus. (I make no guarantees as to whether I will include them, but I will give you credit if one of your comments sparks my muse into action!)_

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When Holmes opened his eyes, the sunlight streaming into the room made it clear that it was morning, and that he had slept the better part of twenty-four hours since the day prior. As he blinked into wakefulness, he was relieved to find that the embroidered creatures on the antique bed-hangings no longer moved of their own accord. Even more pleasant was the realisation that his appetite had returned. Indeed, when the maid entered with his breakfast tray, his mind was uncharacteristically filled with gastronomical fantasies far removed from his usually sparse diet.

As he ate, intentionally slowly, so as not to upset his as yet delicate system, he pondered his surroundings. The little woman in whom he had confided yesterday had transformed the vast room into a sick room. Although most of the furnishings remained covered in linen drapes, a small gilded writing desk, a chaise, and a table were returned to life as usable furniture. The bed in which he lay faced the fireplace, yawning cavernously under a marble mantle-piece. The head of the giant four-poster blocked his view of the windows, but he expected the room faced north or west from the sunshine that filled it at this early hour. Nothing of the ancient ostentatious surroundings gave him any clues as to the identity of his hostess.

She had, it was true, told him something about herself. She was Miss Bassano, young and alone in Italy, with relations in Whitehall. She had had a husband, so he could not really call her "Miss". But she was not dressed in widow's weeds, so what was she? She had not answered his question about Mycroft, not really. It was all quite mysterious and obscure, and inconsistent with her manner, so frank and unmediated by social convention. Holmes' logical nature bristled at the paradox. _Women_, he thought again, with some frustration.

The lady in question appeared through the doors at that very moment. Her attire was again simple, but Holmes no longer considered it modest. He was instead frustrated by what he saw as the deliberate obfuscation of her inner character. There was simply nothing of importance to be deduced from the unadorned gown she was wearing. Certainly, she was moderately wealthy, and not unaware of the current mode in fashion, but there was nothing to answer to the mysteries of her situation. Increasingly peevish, despite the admittedly delicious breakfast he had just eaten, Holmes eyed the woman with suspicion as she walked into the room.

She did not comment on his returned appetite as she noted his empty tray. She did not check his pulse, or examine his pupils, as had been her custom. She did not even arrange his pillows or make comments about the weather. It seemed she did not have to.

"I trust you will not be continuing your vile habit of consuming cocaine, Mr. Holmes?" The question, if one could call it a question, was posed while she lingered with her back towards him over the little heap of his belongings on the table.

"I have heard many times of its evil properties, madam, but I am yet to be convinced."

"Indeed?" She turned around to face him. "I can assure you that your symptoms of the last few days were owed more to the effects of abandoning the drug than they were to the weeks of hunger, sleeplessness, and fear with which you abused your body."

"I repeat, madam, that I have been made aware of the poisonous effects of cocaine, yet I am certain that it has saved my life more than once." Holmes' voice now had an edge to it.

She scoffed at that. "If it has truly saved your life, you would be the first to have experienced such a miracle." She paused and shook her head, frowning. "I really must apologise for my harsh words just then. My husband overindulged in cocaine shortly after our marriage. He died soon after..." She shrugged. "So you see, I have been touched quite personally..."

Holmes, placated somewhat by this unexpected confession, replied generously. "I am indeed sorry to hear of your loss, Mrs. Bassano." At this, she winced, but allowed him to continue. "I turn to cocaine as a protest against the monotony of existence. My mind rebels at stagnation. But, when there is a trail to follow, I have no need of chemical substitutes."

She smiled sadly in response. "We shall have to keep you busy, then." Changing her tone, she walked to the writing desk. "I have been in contact with your brother. He assures me that he will send you anything you may need."

But Holmes could not again attempt to divine how she knew his brother, for the maid walked in, carrying a large package wrapped in brown paper. Miss Bassano's face brightened as she took the package and dismissed the maid.

"You will not need to write about new clothes. See, they have arrived from the tailor."

"They will know I am here!" exclaimed Holmes, his voice edged with uncharacteristic panic.

She looked confused for a moment, and then seemed to understand. "I can assure you that the tailor does not know one Anglobeceri maid from another. You are quite anonymous." She handed him the package. "If you will get dressed, you can accompany me for a little excursion into town." And then, noting his expression, she added amiably, "We can take the carriage."

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_Tune in next week, when Holmes finds a new purpose in life. In the meantime, REVIEW!!!_


	8. Mycroft's Missive

**Chapter 8**

_Author's Notes: Thanks to my reviewers. Haley, I know what the canon says he did, but I wanted to know what you think he did. For example, Holmes goes to Tibet: Why? Surely, it's not just to visit the Dalai Lama! I hardly think he's a Buddhist... (I have my own views as to Holmes's religion, but they will be revealed in time.)_

_Sailor-fussion, I hope I didn't offend you, it's sometimes hard to sound kind in short anonymous reviews... _

_This chapter once again owes much to the indefatiguable researches of Italian Sherlockians, who have done all the leg work for me. All the place names I mention are real (or at least were real in 1891)._

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Even in the shifting shadows of the carriage, Holmes could see her eyes glistening. She was engaged in an informal tour of Florence, having instructed the driver to circle around the centre of the ancient city. It truly was amarvel, he thought, as he gazed at the imposing brick facades of the Renaissance palazzos. The spring sunlight was clear, with none of the swirling yellow fog that choked the vistas of his native London. At every turn were landmarks whose histories he had read in books long ago. He now regretted that they were in the closed black landau – his visage was so altered by the beard he had grown during his wanderings and subsequent illness that he was unlikely to be recognised. It was some relief, then, that the carriage stopped and they alighted at last onto the legendary streets.

The carriage waited at the kerb as he took his first steps. He was no longer weak, but was still unsure, the memory of the pains, tremors, and nausea that had racked his body still fresh. Blinking, he noticed a mischievous smile on the face of his companion. She nodded toward the store in front of which they stood, and as he followed her gaze, he saw the name: "Operti."

"I thought you might like to replenish your stores," she beamed and produced from her purse the now-empty pouch of pipe-tobacco he had carried with him across the Alps. "It is a filthy habit," she said, "But I hope it will keep you from your other vice."

"My mind recoils at inactivity," he protested again.

"If you are not careful, you may find yourself facing permanent inactivity, Mr. Holmes!" She lifted her eyebrows to emphasise her point, and waved him into the store, smiling her smile of secret sadness.

Inside, a hundred aromas of delicate tobaccos seduced his senses. He looked back, but Miss Bassano had retreated across the street into another shop.

He spent the better part of an hour examining the stock, conversing with the shopkeeper, Corsellini, in mixed Italian, French, and English. Having purchased some fine South American tobacco with what he noted as dwindling funds, he stepped back outside into the Via Panzani. He lingered for a few moments, observing the traffic and passerby. He saw Miss _(No, Mrs)_ Bassano approaching, and walked a few steps to meet her. She carried several letters in her gloved hand, one of which she offered to him.

"It is from your brother," she explained.

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Mr Sherlock Holmes

Care of Miss Bassano

The Villa Il Tatti

Florence

21st May, 1891

Dear brother,

It would appear that even your efforts to apprehend the Moriarty gang can stop the foolish and unorganised efforts of hired thugs. One such ruffian attempted to force his way into my offices at Whitehall yesterday. He was, of course, arrested, but I cannot believe that this will be an isolated incident. Your identity must be secured. A colleague, Mr Smith, is in Florence at this moment. Miss Bassano can take you to meet him at the Gabbinetto Scientifico-Letterario. The proprietor, Giovan Pietro Vieusseux, will expect you.

I have enclosed a cheque for 500 pounds, which should pay for some of your expenses. Mr Smith will give you further information.

Please give my regards to your fair companion.

I remain as ever,

M.H.

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He silently handed Mycroft's missive to her as they sat down on a bench in a nearby piazza. Reading it, she paled, then flushed. Biting her lower lip, she returned the letter, but sat quietly, her concentrated gaze looking past the children playing near the fountain ahead of them. At length, she shrugged off her private thoughts and turned back toward him.

"I suppose we'd better go see Uncle."


	9. Rule Britannia

**Chapter 9**

_Author's Notes: It's getting more difficult to write these chapters, especially after the overwhelming success of chapter 8. Thank you to sailor-fussion, mierin-lanfear and Haley Macrae for reviewing. My question as to your opinions about Holmes' activities in the Great Hiatus still stands, although I am getting some ideas myself. Edgar Smith is named in tribute to the early twentieth-century Sherlockian who pronounced that the Great Hiatus was "a figment." Holmes keeps calling Miss Bassano a "little woman," but in fact, she is about average for women of that era. Of course, compared to his 6-foot frame, five-foot-two in a corset is probably puny. This chapter took a long time to write because it is important, and therefore long. I agonised over every detail, but there's no going back now..._

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As he and Miss Bassano walked back down the winding medieval streets towards the waiting carriage, Holmes was filled with an unpleasant sense of uncertainty. He realised now how dependent he was on the continuing good will of this little woman, however changeable her feminine temperament might prove. He glanced down at her; she must have caught his movement out of the corner of her eye, because she returned his look.

"I suppose you want to know something about my uncle," she said.

"Something of the sort crossed my mind," he demurred.

She furrowed her brow, obviously gathering her thoughts. As they turned back into the Via Panzani, she gave a deep sigh, and shook her head. "My uncle will likely tell you everything you need to know." Her mouth was set in finality, but she avoided meeting his gaze.

They levelled at last with the carriage, and Miss Bassano gave instructions to the driver. Slowly rattling on the cobblestone streets, they turned into the Via de Rondinelli, exiting at last onto the elegant Via de Tornabuoni. At the end of the lively thoroughfare, filled with cafes, florists, and shops, the carriage stopped. They disembarked, and Holmes looked up to see the four-storey stone façade of the Palazzo Feroni.

It looked like a medieval fortress. The rusticated walls gave way to yawning arches, which towered, storey by storey, until at last they ended with the crenelated battlements on the roof. They had to turn the corner into the Piazza S. Trinita to find the entrance, and Holmes was once again faced with the power and might of the ancient Florentine Republic.

Inside, however, there remained no sign of the merchant clan that had once had to thus immure themselves. Miss Bassano led him down the stairs, where a clerk waved them into a room filled with books. Dark wooden shelves lined the walls and another rack stood in the middle. There was a counter, roughly hexagonal, and made of dark wood, behind which stood a moustached chief clerk and a gaunt young clerk. The side of the counter was plastered with newspaper strips and playbills.

The chief clerk nodded towards Miss Bassano with acknowledgement, and ducked into another room, bringing out with him a small, elderly man, who smiled in greeting. Miss Bassano smiled in return.

"Eugenio, how do you do?" She turned to Holmes, "Eugenio is the grandson of Giovan Pietro Viesseux, who established this place. The Gabinetto Scientifico-Letterario is the centre of intellectual life of Florence.

The elderly man waved his hands in mock protest. "You flatter me! It is only a modest library. I have no pretensions to being a centre!" But he was pleased nevertheless, and waved them to a table piled with newspapers. "Such interesting events, no doubt you have heard... The Etruscan graves at Vetulonia? And the codexes of Sant'antonio al Monte? Our ministry is sending a committee Professor Villari – you know the Professor, Miss Bassano – he has told me... But you must know all these things!"

"I have been rather occupied, but I will be very interested to read about the things you mention. Codexes, you say?"

"Yes, 500 volumes, and 69 codexes! The latest from the Cinquecenti!"

"Fascinating," she smiled.

"There is a new book, Observations on Latin Paleography in the Middle Ages, by Cesare Paoli. He writes so well! It will interest you, no doubt!"

"Well, as I say, I have been rather pre-occupied with the visit of my friend," she gestured towards Holmes. "Eugenio, could you tell me if Mr Smith is here?"

"Of course, I will tell him you are here. I think he was perhaps speaking with someone. I will check for you." The elderly proprietor bustled off with the energy of a much younger man.

Miss Bassano sighed. "I worry about his health. He isn't young anymore. It would be sad to lose him. He is so charmingly enthusiastic, don't you think?" She shook her head, as if to rid herself of the thought. "Would you like to see the best view in the city?"

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Standing on the parapets of the Renaissance castle, Holmes had to admit to himself that the view was spectacular. The dome of the cathedral dominated the skyline, thrusting its head far above all the other buildings in the city. A slight cough alerted him to the presence of another person on the rooftop.

Holmes turned to see a man perhaps in his fifties, with a sharp widow's peak in his greying brown hair. His eyes were small and suspicious, and he had the impatient mouth of one who is accustomed to giving orders. He wore the grey frock coat of the English civil servant.

Miss Bassano walked to meet him. "Uncle! It is nice to see you." The pair exchanged a brief embrace, and Holmes could observe no physical similarity between them. "Uncle, this is Mycroft's brother, Sherlock Holmes. He is in need of your assistance. I have been caring for him while he was in ill health, but he will need your help now. Mr Holmes, this is my Uncle, Sir Edgar Smith. He will be able to aid you in your troubles."

Sir Smith's handshake was firm, and his glance penetrating. "Your brother tells me you have been instrumental in the capture of the Moriarty gang, Holmes?"

"Yes, but I believe that some of them may still be at large."

"And you believe yourself to be in some danger, then?"

"Yes. My own brother was attacked by a ruffian but a few days ago."

Sir Smith laughed mirthlessly. "I daresay a man who attacks someone of your brothers proportions in broad daylight, and in the centre of government cannot be much of an adversary."

"That may be true," Holmes nodded "but I am of the opinion that it was but a warning. Those criminals of whom I speak will not stop at disturbing my brother at work. They will not rest until they have found me."

Miss Bassano cut in. "Mr Holmes may need a new identity, Uncle," she suggested.

"Indeed, my girl." Sir Smith narrowed his eyes at Holmes. "Your brother says that you have had some experience with delicate matters of state."

Holmes glanced at Miss Bassano, but she merely raised her eyebrow, waiting for him to answer. "I have had the privilege of assisting certain personages with matters of some delicacy. The cases are, of course, confidential." He looked pointedly at Miss Bassano again, but was ignored by both her and her uncle.

"I will see what I can do in arranging for new papers. You will not, I think be opposed to providing services for your own country?"

"Uncle, no!" Miss Bassano protested. "Surely, you could just give him new papers, not force him into espionage!"

"But he could be so useful," Sir Smith spread his lips in a predatory smile. "You will, won't you, Mr Holmes?"

Startled by the vehemence of Miss Bassano's reaction, Holmes nevertheless nodded. "It would be an honour." He saw that her lips were now set in an angry thin line and her eyebrows knotted in mute fury.

Sir Smith held out his hand, and Holmes shook it. "I will call at Il Tatti within the next few days. Good day."

As they watched him leave, Miss Bassano stamped her foot a little. "Rule Britannia," she frowned.


	10. Than any she belied with false compare

Chapter 10

Author's Notes: Thank you to Haley Macrae and sailor-fussion for reviewing. If any of my anonymous readers will review, I promise to immortalise your names in print, here in the lucrative Author's Notes. I still don't own anything, and in case you were wondering, details from the last chapter, including descriptions of the Gabinetto, are taken with gratitude from the Italian Strand Magazine. I was reading another fanfic today, and the author wrote something that I found very applicable to my own situation: "I know the beginning and I know the end; it's the middle that is the hard part." This chapter is heavy on dialogue. I hope it's not too confusing. Extra points for guessing the significance of Miss Bassano's name.

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Miss Bassano suggested leaving the carriage and walking a few blocks. She was no longer visibly angry, but her shifting eyes told him of her inner agitation. As they strolled down the Via Tuornabuoni, Holmes noticed her exchanging polite nods and smiles with several passerby, but he was relieved when they entered the relative seclusion of the Caffe Giacosa. The cafe had the eerie silence of one whose noon-hour patrons had already abandoned it. They were seated, and their drinks were quickly placed in front of them on immaculate linen tablecloth. Glancing down into her small steaming cup of coffee, Miss Bassano began with a question.

"Are you aware of what your brother does for the government, Mr Holmes?"

"You said you knew him," Holmes replied, with some impatience.

"Indeed I do; but you may not. I do not say this to shock you, Mr Holmes, and I ask you to play along. What does your brother do when he goes to his office?"

A little annoyed, Holmes replied, "I believe he audits the books of some Government departments. He has always had an extraordinary faculty for numbers."

"That is partially correct. He is, indeed, paid to do just that. But your brother has for some time assisted the Foreign Office with cases of the utmost delicacy."

"I am aware of that, too. He is used sometimes as a sort of shortcut to determine the outcomes of difficult international problems."

Pleased, Miss Bassano leaned back and smiled. "Your brother," said she, "is a central part of the great web of diplomacy the British Empire has spread throughout the world. He is the oracle of foreign policy. When he speaks," she leaned in and whispered," Spies follow his orders."

Holmes waved his hand impatiently. "My brother has no ambitions of any kind and remains a subordinate in a cramped little office in Whitehall."

"And yet he remains the most indispensable man in the country. His mind is so filled with the essential information gathered by every department, his logic so orderly, that his advice is like a pronouncement from the gods."

"I am his brother, Mrs Bassano, and I am not aware of his divine importance. I fail to see how you could be. For that matter, I fail to see what this has to do with you. "

"Very well. I can tell you. You have just met my uncle. He has been knighted for his services to the Crown, yet you will not find him if you ask for him at Whitehall. He is essential to the success of England's politics abroad. He has many times relied on the advice of your brother, and they are well-acquainted."

"So you know my brother through your uncle."

"Yes. No. Not exactly. I know your brother through my husband."

"Mr Bassano?"

Miss Bassano smiled ruefully. "No. His name was Stamford."

Holmes grasped the connection immediately. "Archie Stamford, the young forger! I had no idea he was married."

"My uncle thought him a very promising young man. He rose through the ranks quickly – he showed a capacity not unlike that of your brother to store facts and trivia. My uncle was set on arranging a match for me with him, and so he gave Archie opportunities, opened doors for him. Your brother was even asked to take him on in his department.

He was always a very nervous young man. And I was just a girl, barely twenty. My uncle pressured him... Well, soon after the wedding, I found him in his study, a needle in his vein. He was taken to the hospital, but he was barely conscious. His family was shocked; they couldn't believe their own son would do such a thing.

Mycroft went through his papers at work. It turned out he had been forging documents, impersonating Ministers... There was a scandal. Worst of all, no one had known.

My uncle knew he would be held responsible. He had helped Archie, after all. So, to lessen the inevitable blow, my marriage was annulled and I was packed off to Italy. His family were kind. They arranged for an allowance for me. My uncle supports me here, in exchange for keeping him informed of any relevant gossip a minister might let slip to an innocent Englishwoman." She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. It had gone cold.

"You've chosen a bad time to come to Florence, Mr Holmes. The Italians want to renew the Triple Alliance. The workers of the city rioted on the first of May. There was terror in the streets and the police couldn't stop it. The leader here, Galileo Palla, has been arrested, but the trial can only bring more unrest. In Rome there has been an explosion, and a hundred people were arrested. My uncle is here, working to save English interests." She reached across the table and looked him in the eye. "No good can come out of this, Mr Holmes."

Holmes chose to ignore her dire prediction for the moment, for his mind was occupied in determining the precise relationships between the empire and the woman in front of him. "And your parents?" he asked.

"My mother died of consumption when I was young. My father was a physician, and he opened a sanatorium, only to succumb himself. I was sent to stay with my uncle, my mother's brother, in London."

"So Bassano is not you married name?"

"No, I was born Beatrice Regina Bassano. It seemed to make sense to go back to my maiden name after the annulment."

"But Bassano is an Italian name."

She smiled, and the grief was suddenly dispelled from her eyes. "That was a coincidence. My ancestors were from Venice. They came to England in the sixteenth century, under Queen Elizabeth. They were artists and musicians, although sadly, I have not been imbued with any of their talents. It is said that one of the women in the family was William Shakespeare's lover. He wrote his sonnets to her." Miss Bassano's eyes sparkled with the mystery.

Holmes looked at her, and a memory floated to the surface. "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun," he recited.

"Neither are mine," she grinned. Holmes was compelled to agree.


	11. On Her Majesty's Secret Service

**Chapter 11**

_Author's Notes: Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter out. Real life intervened, as well as doubts as to where this story was headed. Thank you as always to my reviewers, sailor-fussion, mierin-lanfear, Haley Macrae, and Lindsay. Your compliments make me feel all gooey inside! Holmes' views on the countryside are taken from the Adventure of the Copper Beeches, and the entymology of his new name comes once again from those fabulous Italians at the Strand magazine. I picture Sir Edgar as being a lot like the Minister of Magic in the Harry Potter movies. This chapter contains foreshadowing._

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As his now-empty soup bowl was removed from in front of him, Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair.

"I suppose I will try to find lodgings elsewhere. It will not do to rely on your continued hospitality," he reflected aloud.

From across the mahogany table, Miss Bassano raised an eyebrow. "You may, of course, do whatever you wish, but I suggest you reflect more carefully on your decision. My uncle has not yet given you your assignment, nor your new identity papers. Perhaps a year ago, this would not have been a problem, but with the unrest of recent months, you will be expected to justify your presence wherever you may go. Il Tatti will provide the anonymity you require."

"I am not accustomed to being dependent," Holmes said quietly.

"I would encourage you to grow accustomed to it quickly. Such is the nature of exiles," Miss Bassano pronounced.

A heavy silence settled over the room, and remained unbroken until the table was set for dessert. Picking at his pudding with a fork, Holmes again attempted to make conversation.

"Have you any desire to return to England, Miss Bassano?" he queried.

She looked surprised at first, but then frowned. "I am a divorced woman, with little chance of remarrying at my age. I do not belong to the class of people whose wealth and status grants them a place in society even after scandal. There is no life for me in England." She paused and bit her lip. "Here in Florence, I am surrounded by others who have left, or chosen to leave their homes. I am a perpetual tourist. I can leave my home unescorted," she smirked. "There is freedom in that; and as a woman, I must be grateful for what little freedom life affords me."

He had to be satisfied with that response, for it was more honest than he had expected.

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Holmes sat on the terrace, squinting into the Saturday sun. Fields stretched out into the distance, broken by the sparkling reflections of river water. Yet he was unimpressed by the freshness and beauty of this bucolic vision of spring. Once again, as he had done many times before, he reflected on the hidden wickedness of the isolated cottage in the countryside, the many crimes that could be committed with impunity in the scattered houses. His musings were interrupted, however, by the sound of an approaching carriage. It was some time before it reached the house, but Holmes at once divined the identity of the visitor. He was pleased to find he had not mistaken, as he heard the voice of Sir Edgar in the hall. He stepped back inside, and as his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, Miss Bassano swept by him to greet her uncle.

Sir Edgar's appearance was unchanged but for one thing: his bureaucratic face now wore a smile. It was not the same predatory smile he had shown the day before. This time, it seemed a closer approximation of genuine joy. His temper also seemed expansive.

"You will not leave us, I hope, my dear?" he asked his niece.

"I think not," Miss Bassano replied, her eyes narrowed slightly with suspicion.

Sir Edgar made his way to a round table in a corner of the room. From his briefcase, he produced several folios, which he placed on the tabletop. Closing the briefcase, he reached into his coat to produce a cigarette case and a lighter. He offered a cigarette to Miss Bassano, who gave him a deprecating look and refused. Holmes refused also, and stood waiting while the older man let out a satisfied puff of bluish smoke.

"I must say my dear," Sir Edgar looked at his niece, "that I have really outdone myself this time."

"No doubt," Miss Bassano answered with quiet dread in her voice.

"Mr Holmes, this package contains your new identity," he gestured towards one of the folders lying on the tabletop. "I have consulted with your brother, and he assures me that you speak French?"

"My grandmother was French, and my brother and I are both fluent in that language, yes," Holmes answered.

"That is very convenient. French is the language of international diplomacy, as you well know. And not since the wars with Napoleon has Britain had so much need for diplomacy as now." A little bit of ash from the end of Sir Edgar's cigarette fell on the table, and smouldered. Miss Bassano absently brushed it off. Sir Edgar continued, "So you will need a new name. I have invented the perfect name for you, Holmes. It could signify one of any number of European nationalities, but it bears the weight of great meaning and responsibility."

"Poetry, Uncle? What are we to call Mr Holmes?" Miss Bassano urged.

Sir Edgar straightened his back and proclaimed, "You are to call him Sigerson. See here, if we read "siger from right to left, it becomes 'regis'. As you well know, this is the Latin genitive of 'rex'. Your name becomes 'king's son,' the prince. In Latin 'princeps' is not only prince, but also the most important." Sir Edgar paused for dramatic effect. The ashes from his cigarette floated in the air past Holmes, on their way to the floor. "You, Mr Holmes, will be one of our most important spies. You have no prior identity, but much experience. You could pose as a tourist, even!" Sir Edgar seemed lost in the possibilities, until he was interrupted by Holmes's question.

"Pardon me, Sir Edgar, but what will be my assignment?"

Sir Edgar looked up, startled. "That has yet to be decided, my boy. The Foreign Office must determine where the Empire's greatest needs lie. But my niece will help you."

"Will I, indeed?" came the indignant response from Miss Bassano.

"Well, he is your little find, isn't he, my dear?" Sir Edgar's predatory smile returned to his lips.

"Indeed," she sighed, and the secret sadness in her eyes was no longer a secret from Holmes.


	12. Abigail and the Intruder

**Chapter 12**

_Author's Notes: Thanks to Haley Macrae, whose observation that Holmes is not the world's most patient man was right on target. He won't have to wait long. Apologies to my modern readers for Holmes' appallingly misogynistic positions on certain things, but I think they are in keeping with the prevailing attitudes of late-Victorian Englishmen in general. I'm hoping that this chapter isn't going to alienate my already limited readership; it deals with mature themes and subject-matter. Reader discretion is advised._

He stood in the middle of the Ponte S. Trinita, taking in a view particularly suitable to his melancholic and fugitive nature. On one side, he could see the silhouette of the Ponte Vecchio. On the other, the river opened wide as the sea toward the Cascine park. _If exile was suspension, a state of constant waiting, _Holmes thoughtit was not for him. Even the times when his agency was reduced to searching for lost dogs and children were preferable to the abominable languor of Il Tatti. As a woman, Miss Bassano did not require the activity of the outside world to entertain her. Indeed, Holmes would have been shocked if she had preferred the bustling streets of Florence to the quiet comforts of her home. But if he was to spend another sleepless night in the villa's library, looking through the interminable eighteenth-century reports farming, in search of literature, he would go mad.

So he was relieved when Miss Bassano sent him out on Sunday morning. She had complained of a headache, probably due to the heat, but suggested that he descend into town, seeing as the servants had the day off also. He spent the cooler morning hours ducking in and out of the shadows of cinquecento pallazzos; had wondered at the golden doors of the Baptistery that had started the European Renaissance in art; had heard mass at the cathedral; had felt a pinch of regret around his heart that he could not take confession and by penance release the secrets of his soul. He was not even at liberty to confide in his old friend and companion, left to grieve his loss in far-away London.

It was his stomach that reminded him of the lateness of the hour. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned his back on the terracotta roofs of the midday city and walked toward the hills. As he walked, taking great strides, he caught up with Miss Bassano's maid, also returning from her outing. Not yet out of her teens, she was shy and answered Holmes's questions with the shortest of answers. Her name was Abigail. She had been with Miss Bassano for six years, ever since she came to Italy. Miss Bassano was always kind and patient with her. She was grateful, as any poor orphan should be. Yes, the household was small. No, they managed just fine with three servants. Yes, she had picked up a few Italian phrases. No, she did not miss England. There seemed little more to ask, and they walked in companionable silence.

They reached the villa just as the heat began to rise from the ground to meet the sun's rays. Abigail took her leave of Holmes and began walk around the side of the house to the back entrance when they heard a crash, and something came flying out of a shattered window on the first floor. Abigail came running back to Holmes's side and looked at him, terrified. Without a word, Holmes sprinted up the stairs and through the door.

His eyes had to adjust to the darkness of the hall, and for a few moments the shadows in the many gilded mirrors played tricks with his perception. A scream sounded from his left, followed by the thuds and bangs of moving furniture. He flung open the door, and saw a room in disarray. Most of the furniture was overturned. Papers, books, lamps, and vases lay strewn across the floor. The curtains waved in the breeze coming from the shattered window. In the middle of it all, stood Miss Bassano, a poker from the fireplace brandished above her head, aiming it at the form of a man at her feet. In the seconds it took for Holmes to dash across the room toward her, Miss Bassano brought the iron rod down and hit the man between his shoulder-blades. She had missed his skull by inches.

Holmes tackled her from behind, easily lifting her off her feet with one arm around her waist. With the other, he wrenched the poker out of her hands and flung it to the floor, where it clattered beside the now-unconscious man. Now restraining the silently writhing form of Miss Bassano with both arms, he cried out to Abigail, who had followed him inside,

"Get the police! Now!" And as an after-thought, he added, "And get a doctor!"

He heard Abigail's retreating footsteps and put Miss Bassano down. As he released her, she slid to her knees. Tears streaming down her face, she began to retch.

_A/N: I was going to make this chapter longer, but with the next scene it would be too long. Stay tuned for more!_


	13. Truth, Duty, Valour

**Chapter 13**

_Author's Notes: Wow, two new reviewers, both of whom are Beatles fans!! It doesn't get better than that for me! Thanks for the kind comments, Let it be and Shannon Holmes. Mierin-lanfear, I didn't even notice that contrast. I guess I shouldn't say that, it kinda ruins the whole "all-powerful author" image I have going... But I like it when people see things in my writing that I may not necessarily have put in myself. That's why I write these author's notes! Xena, Queen of the Semi-Circle of Death, yes, I have an idea of what is going to happen, but the way it comes out and when is usually as much a surprise to me as it is to you. ...Which is what sailor-fussion commented on, so that's convenient. Haley Macrae, you couldn't wait, so here you go! Just as aquick caveat: I know nothing about guns (being a Canadian) and equally little about the late nineteenth-century Italian penal code. It is all conjecture._

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The police, Holmes reflected, were incompetent everywhere. They swarmed around the room, disturbing all the evidence. Upon discovering that the intruder had been paralysed by Miss Bassano's final blow, they left him on the floor, but did not interrogate him. Abigail was ordered to clean up the vomit, and Holmes was made to sit in the hall under the surveillance of a sweaty Italian constable.

Relief came in the form of Sir Edgar who stormed in and in broken, but indignant Italian began to berate the police force for the disgraceful treatment of his niece and her household. His guards being thus distracted, Holmes examined the scene for himself. The furniture had been moved, and was therefore of little help in his investigation, but as Holmes crawled across the floor, he noticed what the police had overlooked: a weapon.

In the far right corner of the fireplace was a small revolver. Using a pair of tongs, he carefully extracted it from the ashes. Even those few moments of observation told him it was of English origin. The inspector, noticing Holmes's discovery moved to confiscate the weapon, yelling and gesticulating at his underlings.

Moving to the prone body of the now-incapacitated intruder, Holmes saw that the man's breathing was dangerously shallow. The man now lay face-up on the floor, his bulky clothing in disarray. Holmes bent over and from the pocket of the man's overcoat, plucked a piece of notepaper that was peeking out. He took it over to the window for better light.

It was written on the letterhead of an English inn, though where the inn was located was not clear. The writing was hasty, but the words made no sense. It was obvious to Holmes that it was written in code. The length of the words also suggested English, but he could not be certain without decryption. This discovery was also snatched out of his hands by the livid Italian inspector, and after further wild gesticulations and exclamations of frustration, destroyed. He tore it up into tiny pieces and threw them into the fireplace. If he had thought that the note was useless, he now rendered it so.

Sir Edgar, seeing the expression of horror on Holmes's face, launched into another series of angry invectives. The only result was to have the body of the intruder dragged outside head-first. The vein in his forehead still pulsing ominously, Sir Edgar gestured for Holmes to follow him into the library, still blissfully cool in the midday heat.

The ageing diplomat poured himself some brandy out of decanter on the sideboard and sighed. "Bloody inconvenience, all of this."

Holmes, who had settled into an armchair and steepled his fingers together as was his wont, watched the older man carefully.

"How much," he began slowly, "does your niece know about your affairs?"

"As much as I tell her," came the gruff reply.

"And does anyone know of your relationship?"

"If you are wondering whether this attack had anything to do with the work I do, I would venture to say not. My niece is popular among the Anglobeceri, but the season has not yet started. The holidaymakers are kept away by the political trouble, and most of the regulars left because of the earlier outbreak of dysentery."

"But the police know who you are. Won't there be a scandal?" Holmes pressed.

"You underestimate me, Mr Holmes. I have negotiated with the authorities and they are to treat this incident as a burglary. The maid bravely fended off the intruder and my niece was not home. You, Mr Holmes do not exist." Sir Edgar took another drink from the snifter. "It is a nuisance having to deal with petty domestic squabbles when there are issues of international import waiting for me."

A knock on the heavy doors was followed by the announcement of the doctor. A dignified man with the wispy sideburns of respectable middle age, he wore a stern expression as he walked into the room.

"I have examined your niece, Sir Edgar. I am afraid I have found shocking signs of violence. You," he turned to Holmes, "may wish to go upstairs and comfort your fiancee. I will monitor her condition as the weeks progress, but she should not be left alone tonight." The doctor bowed and walked out of the room.

Holmes's blood ran cold as he felt his own guilt. He stood up from his chair and turned to Sir Edgar. "No doubt you have important business to attend to. With your permission, I will deal with this."

"As you wish," Sir Edgar shrugged, with the same predatory smile Holmes had seen before.

_A cliffhanger for your weekend reading! If I am kind, I might update chapter 14 this weekend. If not, see you next week! _


	14. Love! Valour! Compassion!

**Chapter 14**

_Author's Notes: Thank you Shannon Holmes, I am flattered you think so. Haley Macrae, I try to keep the updates regular because I hate it when other writers abandon their faithful readers without notice. I am very busy these days, but I try to write as often as I can. I'm glad I didn't get pelted with rotten tomatoes for my cliffhanger. This story is developing more slowly than I envisioned; but as long as my readers are still interested, that's OK! I am finally done the with the introductory bits. The names at the end are an invention that will come in handy later; you can guess how. I may get some rotten tomatoes for this chapter. I am prepared for flames!_

For the first time during his sojourn at Il Tatti, Holmes ventured upstairs. It was dark and quiet in the hallway, but one door had been left ajar. He

entered the room quietly.

Holmes was both frustrated and relieved at the anonymity of the interior. The decorations, while thankfully not fussy and feminine, had nothing about them that could be described as touched by the personal taste of their inhabitant. The room was sparsely furnished, with little more than a chair, a dressing-table and a wardrobe. The bed, covered with heavy green hangings was pushed against the back wall. A little sunlight filtered through the drawn shades, giving the walls an odd, crepuscular glow.

Miss Bassano lay fully dressed on top of the covers, her black spread like a halo around her head.. Her left cheek was swollen to an angry red, and the skin around her eyes was puffy from weeping. There were small cuts on her face and hands which disfigured her pale skin. Her breathing was slow but regular, and her eyes were closed, so Holmes assumed she was asleep. She was remarkably small and vulnerable, like a sick child.

He picked up the chair and moved it beside the bed. Clearing his throat, he sat down. From the bed, Miss Bassano sighed.

"You shouldn't be here, Mr Holmes." Her voice was low and quiet. Holmes felt a flush of embarrassment warm his cheeks. He had been in women's bedrooms before, but never while they were occupied.

"How do you feel?" he ventured, rather lamely.

Miss Bassano's eyelids opened rather slowly, but she did not turn her head to look at him. "My home has been invaded, my reputation ruined, and I have a male nurse. Things couldn't be better, Mr Holmes." A teardrop escaped the corner of her eye and ran down her temple into the pillow.

"I haven't come to nurse you," Holmes said. "I'm afraid I have no skills whatever in that regard."

"Then I would ask you to leave me in peace." Miss Bassano closed her eyes again.

Holmes leaned forward and covered her hand with his own; she jerked it away. "I have come to apologize, Miss Bassano. I am quite convinced that this unfortunate situation has been caused by my presence. The evidence suggests that the intruder was looking for me when he entered your home. The attack on my brother a few days ago was a warning to me that my whereabouts were no longer a secret. I found a note on the intruder's person; I believe that if it were deciphered, it would have been an order for my death. Unfortunately," Holmes said with some chagrin, "the local authorities did not deem it important enough to save.

"When this hired killer entered the villa, he did not expect to meet you. I wonder that you, a woman, could have so efficiently disarmed him. Your conduct is commendable."

"Commendable..." she repeated in a whisper, as her tears began to flow in earnest.

"I consider it a mark on my character that I was not able to protect you. It is to my everlasting regret and shame that you bore the violence intended for me. It will never happen again. I have, however, a proposal that I hope you will find agreeable."

A weak shrug from Miss Bassano encouraged him to continue. "I believe that the only satisfactory solution would be marriage."

"Get out." Miss Bassano's voice once again took the steely tone Holmes had heard before. She turned her head and fixed Holmes with a gaze filled with anger and desperation. "I am not normally given to hysteria, Mr Holmes, but if I had more strength left in me, I swear I would throw something – anything – at you, if only to dislodge that misguided valour!" She pulled herself up to sit, and winced with pain. Clenching her fists, she brought up her chin defiantly. "Another arranged marriage? I don't think you've been paying attention, Mr Holmes. I am not interested your ideas of nobility. There is nothing noble about this," she spat.

Holmes looked down. "As you have yourself said repeatedly, you rescued and endured me. I am beholden to you for that. Your own life is in danger now, in more ways than one. I hoped to help."

"Help me how? By chaining me to a stranger for all eternity, under his jurisdiction, with no rights, no identity of my own... To have to answer to his desires? ...To your desires?"

Holmes' eyes grew wide with horror as the understanding filled him completely. "No, I assure you, it would be in name only." He paused, and began again. "You cannot remain here. If I am correct in my suspicions, the man behind this will not be stopped even if one of his minions has been apprehended. You have saved yourself, but made an enemy also, and if this incident is anything to go by, a dangerous and vindictive one."

"If you will not do this for yourself, at least will you come to my aid again? Think of this: My enemies are seeking an Englishman travelling alone. You are alone also, vulnerable in your solitude. Yet, if we were to travel as a couple holidaying abroad, we be virtually anonymous. I would do work for your uncle. We would bide our time. Eventually, my enemies would take liberties, lay themselves open, make fatal errors and I could arrange for their arrest. We might then return to our lives in safety; I to London, and you back to Il Tatti."

"I am to be used and discarded again." Her voice was hollow, but the tears had stopped.

"Have you another option?" he asked.

Miss Bassano covered her face with her hands and cried, "For God's sake, get out!"

Holmes stood up and replaced the chair by the dressing-table. He did not close the door behind him. Descending the stairs, he took the liberty of sending the anxious Abigail up to her mistress with the explicit instructions to keep vigil at her side all night. Despite this precaution, he spent his own night-time hours staring into the licking flames of the fireplace in his room.

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When Miss Bassano made her eventual appearance downstairs at breakfast, the swelling on her cheek had subsided to become a mottled bruise that spread from the corner of her lips over her cheekbone. The cuts and scrapes were less obvious, and her eyes were clear. She sat silent and sullen, barely eating anything. When Holmes had cleared his plate, she looked across at him, and asked,

"What name shall I take?"

Holmes chose not to show how pleased and startled he was when he answered. "I thought of using the name of my maternal grandfather, George Altamont. It has the benefit of being ambiguous: it could be French. I have heard even it as an Irish-American name."

Miss Bassano nodded. "Then my name will have to be Martha. George and Martha." She smiled weakly.


	15. On the boat

**Chapter 15**

_Author's Notes: OK, L'Wren, mierin-lanfear, Haley Macrae, and Xena, I see that I, like Lucy, have some 'splaining to do. The thing is, that chapter 14 in its final form is the very watered down version of what I originally had in mind. So, it might not be quite as convincing as I would have originally liked. But the point that I am trying very hard to get across, and obviously not succeeding at, is that Holmes can and does make mistakes. I am of the Jeremy Brett school of Sherlockiana, which attempts to uncover the cracks in the stony facade. And the way I see it, Holmes is alone in a foreign country – he may have dealt with it fine had he been left alone, but he was picked up by a woman. Not just any woman, either – a woman quite unlike any he had ever met, due to accidents of her past. And Holmes is essentially a type-A personality, who lives life on the basis of assumptions to which he clings very dearly, so when circumstances fail to correspond to his belief system, his world crumbles. But he has pride, and principles and all these wonderful things which are essentially meaningless when not based in reality. So what I was trying to show in Chapter 14 is that Holmes is noble and gentlemanly and thinks that what has happened is essentially his fault. And because it's the 19th century, Miss Bassano has very few options, even in Italy. Holmes recognises this, and tries to make amends. As much as we would all like for her to be the strong independent type, and she goes a lot further in that direction than most women Holmes has met, or will meet, she still has limitations due to her historical circumstances. You are all very observant readers, and recognise that something is amiss. Rest assured that something is indeed amiss, which is a big part of the plot of this story, and will be revealed in time (I sound like JK Rowling). Meanwhile, bear with me, if I haven't totally ruined the mystique for you with this never-ending note. _

_As regards this chapter, Port Said is the port at the mouth of the Suez Canal. Life on the steamer is inspired by the account of a German, travelling in the late 19th century on a British ship where cards were frowned upon and there was to be no reading of novels on a Sunday. The map existed, information courtesy of the Italian Sherlockians to whom I owe so much. Travel times are taken from Around the World in 80 Days (the book, not the movie!!!), and seem to have been realistic._

_On with the motley..._

They stood alone on the deck of the British steamer, which rocked gently in the dark waters of Port Said. The porters were loading the fourth of Miss Bassano's trunks on board. Holmes winced as they staggered under the weight.

"Was it really necessary to bring so much?" he asked.

Miss Bassano looked at him with derision. "When one is asked to pack up one's life, one tries to bring as much as one can." She turned back to the dock. "I sent away to Paris for a few things and billed the Foreign Minister. You might call it a trousseau." She bit her lip and played with the gold band on her left ring finger.

Holmes shifted uncomfortably. "I must apologise again; I had no idea this would affect you so much."

"Marriage," she said in a shaky voice, "is a sacrament and we are using it out of convenience."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

Miss Bassano turned to face him, and met his eyes with a gaze desperate for reassurance. "Tell me, was your pursuer so terrible that you should have risked your life in fleeing, and turned my world upside-down, instead of appearing before your friends, declaring your death an unfortunate misunderstanding, and returning safely to home and hearth?"

"Yes," Holmes said fiercely. "You have yourself witnessed what my enemies are capable of. But," he added, "I have not lost the hope that I will indeed return to England and resume living as I had."

Miss Bassano nodded slowly. The porters were removing the gangway, and the ship blew its whistle. The sound resounded across the harbour. "In the meantime, we must carry on and fulfil our obligations," she stated quietly. As the ropes tethering the ship to the docks were untied, Miss Bassano turned on her heel and walked down the deck, through the doors inside.

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_How, in the name of providence_, Holmes wondered, _had they ended up on the most Puritanical steamer in the British naval service?_ There was nothing wrong with preserving order and dignity on a ship, but this was surely going too far. He had been sitting in a deck chair, enjoying a newspaper and a cigarette, when an attractive but stern-looking young lady had approached him. With reproach in her eyes, she had handed him a Bible and said only, "It is Sunday, sir."

Shocked, Holmes had dropped his cigarette and burned a hole through the Times. _A shameful waste_, he reflected as he patted the sides of his overcoat in search of his cigarette case. The bulge in his left pocket emerged to be Enrico Gambillo's railway map, which had promised "alphabetic indexes and lists of all trains, street-cars, railway and steamship connections, maps of the Adriatic, Mediterranean and Sicilian routes." Finding a cigarette at last, Holmes lit it up and took a drag. Releasing a puff of smoke into the blue of the sky and sea, he smiled, remembering how inaccurate the map had turned out to be. He had a good mind to write to the author and complain.

He threw the stub of his cigarette overboard, and turned to go back inside. In the privacy of his stateroom, he would write that letter after all. It being Sunday, there weren't exactly any card games to play...

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Miss Bassano, or Martha, as he had taken to calling her, looked up from her embroidery as he walked in. She was sitting at a table beside the porthole, struggling to see her handiwork. Most of her time was now spent in the relative privacy of their suite of rooms. From the very first evening, when the prevailing mood of the ship had become evident, she had refused to come out except for dinner and prayers. The latter she could not avoid, even through excuses of illness. The ship's captain had personally insisted on her attendance, and no protestations could move him to lenience.

"Were you chased inside by the Puritans?" she smirked.

"Something like that," he said. "Would you believe that I am expected to read the Bible instead of the Times on Sundays? One of _them_," he placed an acid emphasis on the word, "gave me a copy." He put the book down in front of her.

"Perhaps next week, you can return the favour," she smiled wickedly.

"As much as I would relish the opportunity, it will not, alas, be possible. The ship's steward says that we are ahead of schedule and will arrive in Bombay on Saturday." He opened the writing desk and prepared paper, a pen, and ink.

"Who are you writing?" she inquired from her corner.

"Messr. Enrico Gambillo," Holmes replied testily. "I wish to inform him that his map is dangerously unreliable."

She laughed, "Wait, I have something for you."

"His address?" Holmes asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Laughing, she disappeared for a moment into her bedroom and then re-emerged, carrying a leather case, which she put down on the desk in front of him. "Open it," she encouraged.

Holmes's long fingers lingered for a minute on the clasp, admiring the tooled leather and brushed metal. Lifting the lid, he saw that the case was actually a portable writing desk, equipped with a handsome set of pens, inks, sand, and stationery.

""Thank you," he said, surprised. Replacing the lid, he moved the set aside. "Messr. Gambillo, however, may countenance receiving a letter on ship's letterhead."

His companion shook her head and smiled as she returned to her seat by the window. "As you wish," she said.


	16. Could we Start Again, Please?

**Chapter 16**

_Author's Notes: Thanks you Shannon Holmes, Haley Macrae and Lindsay; the brave few who were not overwhelmed by the last chapter. I wen to see the local theatre production of William Gillette's Sherlock Holmes today, and was thrilled to find that even my writing is better than that script (and humble, too!). I still don't own Sherlock, although I think he's getting used to me. More apologies for the ethnocentrism in this and upcoming chapters. I hope it's historical. Unfortunately, I have never had the pleasure of visiting the locales I will go on to describe, so if you have, feel free to point out my inaccuracies. The Kodak box camera ("you push the button, we do the rest") was introduced in 1888. It was so popular, even the Dalai Lama had one with him when he fled Tibet._

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The Captain watched the passengers on the deck of the steamer as the ship approached shore. There were fewer Britons than usual on this journey, and most had stayed in the privacy of their staterooms. Quite apart from the quarrelsome Egyptians and Indians on board, these passengers had a quiet grace and dignity about them. Mrs Martha Altamont had emerged out of her cabin that morning resplendent in a frothy confection of white cotton. Her dress rippled and billowed in the warm humid breeze. The white sparkled in contrast with black hair. She joined her husband at the railing and they whispered to one another. Mr George Altamont, for his part, was a tall and thin man with dignified sideburns framing a strong jaw. He was smoking a cigarette and gesturing at the shore with his hand. Suddenly, he turned his head and fixed the Captain with his piercing grey eyes. Flushing with embarrassment, the Captain turned away. When he looked back, the couple was gone.

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The heat was stifling for an Englishman accustomed to rain and fog. If Florence had been unaccountably warm, then Bombay was uncomfortably hot. Passengers, traders, porters, and officials bustled around them as they stepped onto the docks. They were directed into a large hall, where officers were checking documents. Holmes fanned himself with his papers. His companion looked up at him and said,

"I bought some things for you, too." She nodded towards a sweating porter behind them, who was wheeling in a mountain of luggage. "I rather thought it would be hot, so I invested in suits of linen and cotton."

Holmes did not have a chance to reply, for they had reached the head of the line, where an officer held out his hand for papers. Glancing at them quickly, he raised his head to look at the pair standing before him.

"Mr and Mrs Altamont? We have been expecting you." He motioned over to a waiting man in uniform while the couple exchanged surprised glances. "This is Lieutenant Bland. He will escort you to your train."

Lt. Bland was anything but what his name implied. A man of considerable height, and not inconsiderable weight, his complexion was reddened by many days spent in the sunlight. He had heavy eyebrows which hung over his eyes and gave him a stern expression. His smile was friendly, however, as he greeted the couple.

"We received a telegram from Calcutta a few days ago. It seems His Excellency wants to see you as soon as he possibly can."

"You are referring to Lord Lansdowne?" Holmes inquired.

"The very same. You must be pretty important people to warrant the attention of the Viceroy."

Miss Bassano ignored the implied question and asked one of her own. "How long will it take for us to get to Calcutta?"

"Oh, it shouldn't take more than a week, I should imagine," the Lieutenant answered affably.

"I see," she said, although she did not see at all. Holmes, remembering the always reliable Bradshaw, looked positively confused.

"Are the trains not punctual?" he asked.

Lt. Bland smiled. "You might say that, Mr Altamont."

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"Still," Miss Bassano said as the train ground to a halt for the third time that day, "It is better than being pursued by the Temperance League." She leaned her elbow on the windowsill, her head against the glass, peering out along the length of the train. A pair of long dark legs swung past the window, and she jumped back, startled. Children with dark skin and rumpled hair ran past the tracks, laughing.

For his part, Holmes looked murderous. "I'm exhausted," he growled.

She raised her eyebrow. "How can you be exhausted? You haven't exactly been shoveling coal into the engine all day."

"Inactivity exhausts me."

"You could go up on the roof with all those charming little Indians and hold on for dear life. Perhaps that would be just the activity you need." She spread her lips in a grotesque imitation of a smile. "And while you're at it, send one of them down here. They're bound to be more grateful than you are."

Holmes mimicked her smile. "My patience is wearing thin."

"Your patience is wearing thin? Well, I never!" she exclaimed.

"Never, what?" Holmes prodded.

"---Never heard such balderdash! Pardon my language." She stood up and put her hand to her temple, looking around the compartment. "If you will excuse me, George," she placed acid emphasis on the last syllable as she swept past the detective. Holmes crossed his arms and looked petulantly out of the window.

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He found her on the porch of the last carriage, holding her camera. She pointed it at the receding train tracks extending behind them into the distance. Pressing the button, she wound the handle to advance the film inside. Standing back, she brushed her hand across her brow and sighed. Holmes coughed slightly to catch her attention.

"I wish to apologize for my abominable behavior," he began. "I hope you can forgive me. I am unused to such circumstances, and I took certain liberties which I would not have allowed myself even when in the company of my closest friends. To behave thus with a lady in your position was... inexcusable." He paused. "I am not referring only to our last exchange. May we start over?"

Miss Bassano looked up at him from underneath the brim of her sun bonnet. Her face showed surprise, sorrow, and forgiveness all in one. Holmes was reminded of the enigmatic expressions he had seen in certain religious paintings in his youth. With a final look of resolve, she held out her hand to him.

"My name is Martha Altamont. I am pleased to meet you."

Holmes solemnly took her hand and shook it twice. "My name is George Altamont, and the pleasure is all mine," he said, and almost meant it.

_Next time: George and Martha go to Calcutta to meet their fate. Now, review!_


	17. Government House

**Chapter 17**

_Author's Notes: Gee, my reviewers are tres impatient! Eeeexcellent... There are some fabulous old photos to be found of Calcutta on Calcuttaweb. Palki is a sort of sedan chair._

Calcutta was at once familiar and exotic to the exiled emigres. The architecture seemed European with colonnades and domes, but the spaces between the grand houses were packed with people in white robes and turbans. Neo-Classical facades were shadowed by towering palm trees. There were carriages in the streets, but they competed for space with rickshaws and _palki_. The air was hot with the motion of moving people.

Everything was bigger than in Europe. There were more pedestrians, more carts, and larger houses. None was larger than Government House, approached by the Esplanade. On one side of the thoroughfare was a field. The other side was completely taken up by an enormous brick edifice with four wings. To English eyes, it resembled Keddleston Hall. Even the palm trees which flanked it were dwarfed by its towering portico. Holmes and Miss Bassano felt very small indeed as they walked up the stairs inside.

Government House was the residence of the Viceroy of India, the seat of the British Raj. Yet the man who greeted the new arrivals was very human. Lord Lansdowne was bald, and his forehead sloped down to pair of kindly and intelligent eyes. He had a curved moustache, the tips of which almost touched the sideburns on his cheeks. His expression was lively and his manner dignified.

"Mr Altamont, Mrs Altamont," he greeted them. "You are most welcome here!"

"You are an Oxford man!" Holmes stirred.

"Indeed," the Viceroy replied, somewhat startled. "But if you are referring to my accent, I'm afraid it has been permanently damaged by my stay in Canada."

"Of course, you served as the Queen's representative there, too!" Miss Bassano exclaimed. "You have seen the very breadth of the Empire!"

"I have had the privilege of seeing much in the course of my career. I have been helped greatly by my wife in all my endeavours," Lord Lansdowne smiled toward a woman who had just entered the room. "This is my wife, Lady Maud."

The Vicereigne was a handsome woman with a square face and curly dark hair. She had a sharp nose and deeply-set pale eyes. She shook the hands of her guests warmly.

"No doubt you have been fatigued by your journey. I will have one of the servants show you to your rooms, and you may rest before dinner. We are to be treated to a performance after dinner, so you may enjoy that, too."

Encouraged by such a civilized welcome, the Altamonts were equally pleased with their apartments. The rooms to which they were shown were generously furnished, with a small shared sitting-room which opened to two dressing-rooms that led to bedrooms beyond. Holmes lit a cigarette and lingered at the window as Miss Bassano excused herself.

The view beyond proved enticing, and before long, Holmes found himself strolling on the lawn of the rambling estate. He was joined by his host, whose pace was brisk and sportsmanlike.

"I have received information from London regarding your abilities, Mr Altamont," Lord Lansdowne began. "It seems that you will be able to contribute to our efforts in this part of the Empire."

"If my assistance should prove necessary, I will be pleased and proud to render my service to the Crown, as I have done before," Holmes answered.

"It will prove necessary very soon," Lord Lansdowne stated gravely. "We will discuss your position tomorrow. Today, you and your wife must rest and enjoy the evening's festivities."

When Holmes returned to their rooms, he found his wife indeed resting. She was dressed in a pale muslin wrapper, with frills at the neck and wrists. Her hair, still wet from a bath, was tightly braided down her back, and she lay curled on a chaise in a shadowed corner. She had fallen asleep, and one of her slippers had fallen to the floor. The other dangled precariously off her bare foot. Unnerved by the intimacy of her pose, he went to cover her sleeping form with a throw from the sofa. She stirred at his movement, and her eyes fluttered open.

"I did not mean to wake you," Holmes apologized.

"No, I shouldn't have fallen asleep. I was more fatigued than I had imagined," she rubbed her eyes. "Did you go for a walk?"

"Yes. I met the Marquess in the grounds."

"What did he say? What will he have you do?" Miss Bassano sat up.

"We are to discuss it tomorrow. Meanwhile, we are to enjoy ourselves at dinner."

"Dinner!" Miss Bassano jumped. "I must begin to prepare! It has been so long since I attended one of these soirees." She started toward her dressing-room and called over her shoulder, "Will you ring for a maid?" And, pausing with a critical glance at Holmes, "And a valet, to help you."

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Dinner did, in fact, turn out to be quite entertaining. The Lord and Lady Lansdowne regaled their guests with stories of their travels in Canada. The dramatic conclusion of the Metis Rebellion proved especially popular, although it was clear that the Viceroy reserved a special appreciation of the wilderness of the new country.

It was a strange gathering, mixing nouveau Indian riche, who aspired to become English with English exiles. All the guests seemed eager to hear the concert, and they soon withdrew to hear the talented young violinist who had been invited to play. Just as they were about to sit down, Miss Bassano excused herself to reclaim something she had left in the dining-room. When she came back to sit at Holmes' side, the concert had already begun. As the strings swelled and quieted in turn, she was surprised to see a tear glistening on his cheek.


	18. A Norwegian Named Sigerson

**Chapter 18**

_Author's Notes: OK, so you're all waiting for some action... Haley Macrae, thanks as always. Just for you, here's a little "back in London" bit, with some Watson POV, at your suggestion. I have to confess that I didn't want to try Watson's voice, but it came quite easily. I must, however, agree with Holmes that the Doctor is a very maudlin writer. Unfortunately, it's contagious – apologies for the dripping sentiment. Sailor-fussion, welcome back! I hope to read more of your fanfic soon! (Hint, hint!)_

It had been a little over a month since the death of my old friend Sherlock Holmes at the hands of the arch-criminal Professor Moriarty. Their mutual destruction at Reichenbach Falls is a story so fantastical that few dared to believe it. My own witnessing of it, however, and the swift action of the British law against those who had supported Moriarty in his villainy, left no doubt in my mind of the finality of my friend's demise.

Though we had seen little of one another in the years following my marriage, still the knowledge that I would never again assist Holmes on one of his brilliant investigations weighed heavily upon my mind. For some time, I was unable to read accounts of crime in the newspapers without regretting that Holmes would not be able to come to the aid of the helpless victims of such heinous acts. Were it not for the tender concern of my dear wife, I feel I would have fallen prey to a terrible melancholy in those weeks.

I had the courage to return to Baker Street only once to deliver the sad news to Mrs. Hudson. Her shock and grief so overwhelmed her that I was obliged to stay and comfort her instead of venturing upstairs (seventeen steps, as Holmes had so often reminded me) to pay my last respects to the rooms we had shared for so long.

And so it was that I isolated myself from the world to which Holmes had introduced me, and concerned myself chiefly with my patients, to the diagnosis of whose ills I applied the very methods that my old friend had taught me. I filled my hours of leisure with a new hobby, suggested to me by my wife. I became deeply interested in the doings of the Royal Geographical Society, and particularly the exploits of a Norwegian explorer named Sigerson, whose nationality allowed him access to the very places from which Britain had been barred...

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It was late when Holmes returned to his rooms after hours of planning with Lord Lansdowne. The moon shone brightly across the carpet, and the curtains moved slightly with a breeze from the open windows. As was his habit, Holmes moved cushions from the sofa to the floor, and sat with his legs drawn up to his chin. He lit a cigarette and the smoke melted into the moonlight.

From her bedroom, Miss Bassano heard the door open and close, and at length, the familiar smell of tobacco drifted into her chamber. The scent told her that Holmes had not retired to sleep, so she stood up and drew a dressing-gown about her. She froze momentarily as she heard the footsteps of a passing servant in the hallway outside. As the sound faded, she opened the door slightly, and whispered,

"George?"

There being no answer, she tried again, stepping into the common sitting-room. "George?" she called softly.

"Holmes!" she hissed finally, rounding the edge of the sofa to find him seated, immobile as a statue but for the glowing end of his cigarette.

The sound startled him, and he looked up at her. With her black hair and white gown she looked like a spectre illuminated by the summer's full moon. He nodded in acknowledgement.

"What did he say?" Miss Bassano asked, kneeling before him in concern.

Holmes let out three smoke rings into the air above before he replied, "I leave tomorrow with an expedition to Tibet."

"Tibet?" she repeated, surprised.

"There has evidently been some confusion in diplomatic circles of late as to who exercises power in that country. Although the Chinese claim suzerainty, none of the diplomatic conventions over the past 15 years have opened foreign contact. Lord Lansdowne is particularly concerned that the Calcutta Convention of last year has been repudiated by the Tibetans, even as the Russians expand into Central Asia."

"So the British fear the loss of their influence to the Czar?" Miss Bassano queried.

"Our influence," Holmes corrected. "Precisely."

"And the Russians are building a railway to cross all of Siberia and to link the two sides of the continent..." she mused, and Holmes nodded in assent. "But what have you to do with it?"

"I am to infiltrate Lhassa, and to apprise the Foreign Office of any encroachments by Russian authorities. I am also to determine how much control the Chinese have over the region, and the possibility to regaining official relations with the Tibetan state, if such a one exists."

"It is an ambitious agenda," Miss Bassano said. "How will you do it?"

"I am to pose as a Norwegian explorer, doing work for the Royal Geographical Society."

"That is truly ingenious!" Miss Bassano exclaimed. "But what of me? How am I to help?"

"Help?" Holmes looked truly surprised.

She gave him a cold look. "If you will recall, you suggested that my presence was to be of inestimable assistance to you in your work."

Though she expected him to be flustered with guilt, he was unfazed. "And it will be," Holmes assured her. "I will write letters to my patient wife, and they will contain the details of my mission."

"Very well," she said, seemingly mollified. She stood up, and headed toward her bedroom. "Good night, George."

"Good night, Martha,"he called after her softly.

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They stood again at the crowded railway station. The Lord and Lady Lansdowne had wished him a safe journey earlier, but had tactfully stayed behind at Government House. No doubt, they had wished to give more privacy to the farewells of a young married couple about to be separated by a dangerous journey.

Miss Bassano had been silent on the way to the station, but as they stood now, she handed him a small leather-covered case, and said, "This will make the trip easier."

"I have already packed the writing case you gave me," Holmes replied in surprise.

"This is not a writing case. And it is not cocaine, either, "she added bitterly. "It is my camera. If you are to be an explorer, surely you will need to take photographs?"

Looking down at the little woman before him, Holmes admitted defeat. "Yes, I will. Thank you."

Miss Bassano nodded shortly, and looking around, said to no one in particular, "You will write?"

Instead of an answer, Holmes extended his hand. She shook it briefly, and gestured toward the train platforms.

"Goodbye, then."

"Goodbye."


	19. Letters from a Gathering Storm

**Chapter 19**

_Author's Notes: Thank you to Haley Macrae, and no thanks to all of you who didn't review. Feel the guilt!!! This chapter is long, and should give you all ample reason to review. I cheated a little bit with the Kodak camera: Holmes should have sent the whole thing to Kodak, who would have developed the used film and sent the photos back to him with the camera full of new film. However, I figure a talented chemist and amateur enthusiast such as Holmes would have been able to develop the photos himself. I have been heavily influenced in my account of Russian history by Communist propaganda, but it's the best we have._

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August, 1891

Government House, Calcutta

Dear George,

We were all much relieved to receive news of your safe arrival in Tibet in the form of your letter, but we were mystified by its contents. You may imagine our dismay when the letter we had awaited for so long contained nothing but scraps filled with calculations. I admit that I pouted for quite a few days when at last it dawned upon me that it would not have been safe for you to write in plain English. I sat down, determined to work out the hidden meanings of the numerals in the code you had devised. I believe I have quite mastered it, but you must send corrections where I have made mistakes.

As regards your journey, Lord Lansdowne is well pleased by your decision to take the Nathula Pass. He has studied your route from Darjeeling, and thinks that your descriptions or the geography will be very useful. My uncle is impatient for your news of the situation at Lhasa, though I have tried to explain the possible reasons for a delay.

Lady Lansdowne has been exceedingly kind to me in your absence. She has a flair for entertaining, and has involved me in much of the planning for upcoming dinners, concerts, and balls. It is not what I have been accustomed to in my years in Florence, but it keeps me occupied nonetheless...

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October, 1891

Lhasa, Tibet,

Dear Martha,

I have purposely devised this code so that you might decipher it. That you were so quickly able to use it is, indeed, most convenient.

My expedition caused a stir as soon as we crossed the border into Tibet, and news of my arrival reached Lhasa sooner than I was prepared for. Although we camped outside the city, we were visited within days by a steady stream of Chinese and Tibetan diplomats. You may inform Lord Lansdowne and your uncle that the situation is much as we had feared. Although the Chinese claim suzerainty, they have little control over the region, and true power here is still exercised by the Dalai Lama.

My conclusions had largely to be based upon surmises and guesses at first. Although I had a translator, there can be no substitute for the language of the body; to my disappointment, I have found that it does not always translate. However, anxiety and fear are emotions which are common to the human race, and they were clearly evident in the faces of the Chinese officials who graced us with their visits.

All was going according to plan until one night when I was awoken roughly by a pair of hooded men. Although I have some knowledge of the martial arts practiced in the Eastern countries, I was well aware that my skills were no match for those of these two ruffians. Under the cover of darkness, I was taken from my encampment through the gates of the closed city of Lhasa. My two assailants stored me in a tiny room until dawn, whereupon I discovered that my belongings had travelled with me. I was fed and not otherwise mistreated, though I had to stay within my quarters. From the clothing and demeanor of those who attended to my needs, I gathered that I was being held in a monastery.

On the third day of my confinement, I was released from my room and led to a large, dim hall, past courtyards filled with chanting monks. The man before me was dressed in scarlet and saffron robes, and to my astonishment, spoke perfect English. He inquired for my name, though it was clear he did not need it, as my belongings had long before been searched. He did, however, seem to accept my explanation of being attached to the Royal Geographical Society's expedition to Tibet. He struck me as an altogether charming and intelligent man. Indeed, in the days following, he guided me around the monastery himself, taking particular care to explain the features peculiar to his form of Buddhism.

I must thank you, Martha, for your foresight in giving me your camera. The Dalai Lama has taken great interest in the art of photography, and we have spent the last week engaged in documenting the ancient city of Lhasa. I include in this package the photographs we have developed, and a report to accompany them. If you will forward them to your Uncle, he will see that the Society receives it. I believe that the information I am gathering will be of great utility in British efforts in Tibet...

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January, 1892

Government House, Calcutta

My dear George,

I enclose with this letter several new rolls of film that I have received from the Kodak Eastman Co., as well as the Royal Geographical Society's review, which includes your report on Lhasa. They have agreed to publish your findings in instalments.

My uncle wishes to know whether you have seen any evidence that the Russians are planning to invade Tibet. The Trans-Siberian Railroad is being constructed faster than was first expected, and the Foreign Office is concerned with the rapid expansion of Russian influence in the East.

I have also received a letter from your brother, who wishes me to assure you that your rooms at Baker Street remain untouched. He has included some copies of the Strand magazine, wherein a certain Dr Watson has published some of the adventures of a Sherlock Holmes. I thought they would amuse you, so I will include them here as well...

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March, 1892,

Lhasa, Tibet

Dear Martha,

I would like to thank you for your last package. It was a rare pleasure to read the accounts – however exaggerated – of London crime. I have completed another report for the Royal Society, and enclose it here. If you will obtain more film for the camera, I would be most grateful.

You may assure your uncle that in all my inquiries I have heard not so much as a hint of a threat from the Russian Empire. I believe that the true threat lies in the rumours and false information spread by the Chinese informants who mislead our government into acts of aggression. In fact, the past few months have been extremely quiet, especially now that I have convinced the Dalai Lama that his country has nothing to fear from Britain or its allies. It is my hope that Lord Lansdowne will live up to that gesture of peace and not allow his decisions to be swayed by those with malicious designs on land and peoples.

I grow tired of vainly waiting for the onslaught that will never come. Although I have immersed ymself in the daily life and rituals of this monastery, I cannot imagine that it is the wisdom of the Orient that the Ministry desire. Pray relate to your uncle that I cannot tell him what the Foreign Office wish to hear...

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May, 1892

Government House, Calcutta

Dear George,

Since you were so interested in the detective methods of Mr Sherlock Holmes, I have decided to send you some clippings about the sensational crimes which have recently shocked all of Europe. Apparently, there has been a string of daring robberies across France; a bank in Montpellier has been nearly bankrupted by forgeries, and a train-deluxe on the Riviera has been robbed in broad daylight. I cannot imagine what you will make of it.

As regards your previous letter, my uncle begs me to reply that although he is impressed by the force of your moral convictions, he himself remains unconvinced of their veracity. Thus, I am myself to depart for Russia, to better assess the situation. Your orders, I'm afraid, are to continue as you are...

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DEAR SIR STOP BEG YOU TO RECONSIDER STOP BB'S LIFE ENDANGERED STOP SIGERSON

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SIGERSON STOP KEEP OUT OF THIS STOP SMITH

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July, 1892

St Petersburg, Russia

Dear George,

I have sailed from Calcutta to Odessa, and taken a train through Moscow to St Petersburg. Neither the domes of India nor Istanbul could have prepared me for the churches of this country. Everywhere they are covered in glittering gold, and in Moscow, covered and crenelated as though struck by some architectural pox.

I was also unprepared for the barbarity of the people. The rest of Europe has not seen such extremes in the human condition since the age of feudal lords and serfs. Not even the misery of the gutters of Calcutta could match the abject poverty and hopelessness of the Russian peasants. And nearly everyone is a peasant. Yes, there are rich merchants and powerful nobles who live in the cities, but outside their gilded gates, they behave no better than the Gypsies who roam the streets. The army is cruel, the Czar is distant, the Church unsympathetic.

In my journey, I met a young Jew named Trepoff who told me of the horrors his people have endured. I do not speak of Egypt or the Inquisition – I speak of Russia in this very day! You may imagine how shocked I was (a citizen of Britain, where we have had Disraeli and the Rothschilds) to hear about the Pale of Settlement and the pogroms, where raging Cossacks rape and pillage the villages of innocent Jews, in the manner of the Huns, the Goths or the Vikings! Young Trepoff himself met an untimely end, though at whose hands, I cannot say. His house went up in flames during the night, and there was no investigation. I am deeply saddened at the loss...

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October, 1892

Lhasa, Tibet

Dear Martha,

I was indeed intrigued by the accounts of the sensational crimes in Europe, but I was more interested in the young Jew you spoke of. I was summoned to Odessa four years ago to investigate the murders of a family by that name, who also perished tragically in a conflagration. The elder Trepoff, it seems, had been a merchant whose ships were carrying cargo precious to the Imperial Crown. He was unwilling to cooperate fully with the authorities; his race made him expendable. He and his family thus met their end. I was called in, as though there was nothing to hide. The bandit who was paid to set fire to the house was caught, of course, but the true culprits remained unpunished. It is painful to hear that I was not able to prevent the death of the living heir, yet I was powerless to change the policies of an entire nation. Indeed, it seems I am a similar position now...

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December, 1892

St Petersburg, Russia

Dear George,

St Petersburg is a city for poets. I have been reading the writings of the Russian literary hero, Poushkine. He describes it as though he was standing beside me on the banks of the Neva, though he has been dead these 60 years. It is Versailles in Venice; more gilded than the palace of the Sun King, on canals more regular than the city of the Doges.

I have been presented at Court, and have attended regularly since. All the fashionable people here speak perfect French and English and the women order their gowns from Paris. The Hermitage rivals the Louvre for Old Masters, and each grand family has palaces which make Belgravia seem like mud huts in darkest Africa. Yet I sense a storm coming...

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SIGERSON STOP BE PREPARED TO MOVE AT EARLIEST INDICATION STOP SMITH

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February, 1893

Lhasa, Tibet

Dear Martha,

I have received a cryptic message from your uncle, who tells me that I should be prepared to leave Tibet at the earliest notice. He sent the telegram by mail, which seemed to me an unusual choice of communique for so urgent an order. My reports to the Geographical Society are regular, and I have not yet been relieved by another company of spies. Though at first I thought your prediction of a gathering storm too dramatic, the evidence suggests your female intuition was unmistaken...

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April, 1893

St Petersburg, Russia

Dear George,

The situation that the government had feared is about to transpire, but it will not transpire in Tibet. I have heard rumours, which have been confirmed at the highest diplomatic levels, that the Russians have taken a keen interest in Persia. It seems that they now hold it to be within their sphere of influence, and my uncle is inexplicably mentioning treason...

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June, 1893

Lhasa, Tibet

Dear Martha,

It is of the utmost importance that you obey each of my instructions immediately, and take no heed of any opposition in the form of your uncle or anyone else. Sir Edgar is quite right to suspect treason, and I believe I have the key to proving it. You must take your leave of St Petersburg and meet me in Palestine as soon as you can possibly reach it. You will travel to Jerusalem, and stay with the Catholic diocese. Wait there until you hear from me...

_A/N: I believe that at least one of our intrepid pair is a Catholic, and I may publish a small monograph on that subject should there be sufficient interest. Notes for the December letter: the Sun King is Louis XIV, the Doge is the traditional ruler of Venice, Poushkine is still the great hero of Russian literature akin to Shakespeare for the English, and Belgravia is a fashionable and wealthy area in London. Now review! (press the button, you know you want to!)_


	20. Tea and Sympathy

**Chapter 20**

**_Author's Notes: Thank you mierin-lanfear, Haley MacRae, L'Wren and ashley for reviewing; it's ironic that you commend me for not writing fluff, and then I write this chapter, which is considerably more fluffy than the rest. Well, you might not think so. In any case, I have about 5 or 6 more episodes in the plot that I would like to write about, though how many chapters that will take, I don't know._**

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Jerusalem glowed rose-gold, even in the midday sun. The ancient houses cast blue shadows over the narrow streets. Miss Bassano stood at her window, fingering the fringe on her lace shawl, and observed as figures clad in black approached her own house. As they neared, she perceived that the first was a young priest, secretary to the Bishop who had so kindly lent her the flat for her stay. A second priest, frock coat flaring behind him, carried bags of luggage. She may have let this pass unnoticed, but then she saw the third man, striding behind. He was tall and gaunt, his profile hawk-like, his gaze no less determined. A thrill of recognition made Miss Bassano's heart leap, and she rushed to the small settee in the middle of the room. Sitting down and smoothing her skirt, she heard the sound of the bell below.

The young priest entered first, his face flushed from taking the stairs. He bowed courteously,

"Your husband, madam." The young clergyman coughed softly, and bowed again, exiting with diplomatic grace.

At last, Holmes entered the room. He was again clean-shaven, and his face was set with anticipation. Miss Bassano rose, a trifle too quickly and crossed to embrace her 'husband.' She grasped his hands and made to kiss his cheek, which resulted in an uncomfortable exchange as Holmes brought his face down to her level. Holmes, who had not seen a European woman in some 22 months, was struck by the absurdity of her attire – the columnar skirt, the billowing sleeves, and the pinched waist. Although she wore a gown of an attractive shade of turquoise, the peculiar interior light cast shadows on her face, lending it an unhealthy pallor.

"Please, sit down," she gestured, and they were seated; Holmes in a chair with its back to the window, she on the settee.

"I trust your journey was comfortable?" he inquired at length.

"Yes, the trip to Jaffa was by sea, and then it was an uneventful journey to Jerusalem," she answered.

"And your accommodations are suitable?

"Yes, the Patriarch has been most generous." She paused, and gave a nervous laugh. "For so long, I have wanted to visit Palestine – yet when I arrived, it seemed to me devoid of all loveliness, for I was so filled with concern for you."

"I am sorry to have so biased you judgement," Holmes replied solemnly.

"You look well," she said after a short pause.

"I am well," he agreed.

"The monastic life suited you, then?" she prompted further.

"Yes, I was able to occupy my mind and body with the regime prescribed to me by the monks." He shifted uncomfortably. "I was obliged to leave your camera in Tibet. The Dalai Lama could not be persuaded to part with it, and it cannot be of much use to me here. I hope you do not mind."

She raised her eyebrows a little at that, but shrugged. "May it bring him pleasure. You have no desire to photograph the shrines of the holy land?" she asked, somewhat facetiously.

"I have not come here on a pilgrimage. This is merely a central location in the region where I hope to apprehend a certain criminal."

"On what charge?"

"I believe it will be a charge of no less than treason," Holmes answered affably.

"Ah, yes, of course, so you said. But surely treason is a harsh word?"

"Moran is every bit a traitor," Holmes insisted.

"Moran? Not Sebastian Moran?"

"No, Sir Augustus." He turned and eyed her suspiciously. "Why did you ask about Sebastian Moran?"

"I met him briefly at Calcutta. He paid a visit to Government House."

"And you did not write to me immediately about it?" Holmes spoke through gritted teeth.

"I did not think much of it," she shrugged. "It was a mercifully short visit. He spoke of nothing but tigers and wars. Lord Lansdowne said that he was nothing like a gentleman should be, and asked him to leave. I expect they quarrelled over money or some such thing."

Holmes leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "They may well have. In certain circles, Moran is well known, even notorious for being a cheat at cards. It seems that his father is also less than honourable." Holmes snorted. "He used to be the minister to Persia, you know."

"Perhaps my uncle knew him. Although, it seemed to me that the Colonel was perhaps 20 years your senior, so my uncle could not have been more than a junior clerk at the elder Moran's retirement."

"I expect Sir Augustus is nearing eighty. Yet it appears that he is still dangerous." Holmes stood and paced silently around the room as Miss Bassano toyed with her shawl, watching him surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye. Suddenly, Holmes sat himself at her side on the sofa and fixed her with an earnest stare.

"I want you to know that I will apprehend him."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that," she smiled warmly. "Uncle will be pleased that you have bagged a traitor," she laughed.

"No," Holmes said quietly. "I do not mean Sir Augustus Moran. I mean his son."

"The Colonel? For such a trifle as a few pounds lost at cards?" She looked at him, confused.

"He is guilty of far worse things. It was he who dislodged the boulders at Reichenbach in an attempt to kill me. It was he who tracked me to Il Tatti, and it was his orders that nearly cost you your life."

Miss Bassano shuddered. After a lengthy pause of silent contemplation, she turned to Holmes.

"But if the Colonel is an expert marksman like he claimed, surely he could have merely shot you outright?"

Holmes laughed, a cold, hollow laugh. "With a revolver? No, that would have been vulgar. Moran may not be a gentleman, but Professor Moriarty was. And I believe that neither of them considered that he would need a second for our duel."

"But why wouldn't he have shot at you at Il Tatti, then?" she pressed.

"I have spent hours, nay, months, considering just that. Without evidence, I am loathed to conclude from conjecture." Seeing her querying face, Holmes continued. "I expect that he had to secret himself somewhere during the trials of the Moriarty gang. His activities would have been too closely monitored for him to have attempted something of that audacity." He paused again and smiled a wry smile. "The English policeman has patience, if nothing else. Under the scrutiny of Scotland Yard, Moran had to rely on an inexperienced accomplice. But I have no doubt that it was he who ordered the attack." Holmes' eyes glittered. "He has, after all, the mind of a soldier, and the heart of a hunter. Tracking the movements of enemy prey is what he excels at. No doubt, he would have made an admirable detective." The humour of this impossible proposition made the corners of his mouth turn up in mirth. He waved his hand dismissively. "The note I found on the person of your assailant was proof of what I already knew."

"You found a note?" She looked at him in surprise.

"Yes, it was written on English letterhead from a very reputable hotel."

"What did it say?" Shock was clearly registered on Miss Bassano's face, and her breathing had quickened.

"It was in code, and that bungling inspector threw it in the fire before I could work it out." He looked at her and noticed that she was shivering, despite the warmth of the room. "But I have wearied you," he exclaimed. "We will not speak of it again," he said reassuringly, as he wrapped her flimsy shawl around her shoulders.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me," she stammered, and furtively wiped a tear that threatened to fall down her cheek. "That day was so... horrible."

Holmes, who had made for the tea service on the sideboard returned to her side and offered her a cup.

"It is I who should apologise," he said, his expression solemn. Miss Bassano nodded in gratitude and understanding, taking the teacup from him.

_A/N: I hope that explains those lingering plot points..._


	21. The Dead Diplomat

**Chapter 21**

_Author's notes: First off, Amy: Thank you for such a lovely compliment. As I do the same thing for other stories, I know exactly what you mean! I'm sorry for the delay. It's end of term, my mother watered my computer (I am waiting for it to sprout leaves!) and ffnet has been read-only, as you know. Thanks also to my faithful reviewers Haley Macrae and mierin-lanfear. Lindsay, this chapter is for you (guess why?)._

Sherlock Holmes sat on Miss Bassano's chesterfield, sulking. At least, his pose suggested that he was sulking: his knees were drawn up to his chin, and he wrapped his long, sinewy arms around his legs. His eyes were cloudy and unfocused, and his general attitude was that of dismay. Miss Bassano, for her part, swept past him and brushed her hand against his legs, saying, "Feet off the furniture, Mr. Holmes. It really is basic etiquette."

With an unfriendly look in her direction, Holmes slowly unfurled himself, stretching his legs out in front, and crossing his arms across his chest.

"He is dead," he muttered.

Miss Bassano, who had listened to this refrain for hours, could take it no longer. "Well, of course he's dead!" she snapped. "We all die sooner or later."

"He died too soon," Holmes answered darkly.

"Before you could apprehend him to the general acclaim of the public at large?" Miss Bassano taunted.

"The culprits must be caught," Holmes said firmly, as though his life's philosophy rested on the inherent justice of crime and punishment.

"Sir Augustus, you may recall," she said slowly, as though speaking to a child, "was minister for Persia. And that, my dear Mr Holmes, granted him diplomatic immunity. There is nothing you could have done that would have brought him to justice, even if he was a traitor."

The fog disappeared instantly from Holmes' eyes, and he turned to look at Miss Bassano. She didn't notice the change in his demeanor and continued talking.

"I expect the service will be flooded with foreign dignitaries, paying their last respects," she mused, and then smirked at the irony of it. "Paying their respects to a criminal..."

Holmes sprang up and ran into his bedroom. Over the noises of the wardrobe doors, he called out to Miss Bassano, "And so shall we!"

Emerging moments later, dressed in a formal black frock coat, he looked at her in amazement. "Haven't you changed yet? We are going to attend the funeral!"

Miss Bassano, whose shock had deprived her of the ability to argue, obediently entered her own dressing-room and shut the door. When she had emerged, wearing black crepe and a wide-brimmed hat draped with an imposing black veil, Holmes had already put on his coat, hat, and gloves, tapping his cane impatiently on the floor. He helped Miss Bassano into a heavy overcoat that was entirely inappropriate for the desert summer, and offered her his arm. They were going to the funeral of Sir Augustus Moran.

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Sequestered as they were in the dark shadows of an accommodating alcove, Sherlock Holmes and Miss Bassano were in a perfect position to observe the guests without being seen themselves. The hall was filling slowly, as the pungent smell of lilies floated on the air. The guests were a strange mix of European and Eastern personages. British diplomats, stiff in their frock coats, were homogeneously black, and it was difficult to distinguish one side-burned male from another. Sheikhs, emirs, and other persons of questionable nationality dressed in flowing robes and colourful head-scarves, cast suspicious glances at their surroundings. In the middle of it all, stood the coffin of Sir Augustus Moran, presided over by a deferential priest. Moran's son, much to Holmes' chagrin, was absent. The din of many muffled voices echoed slightly.

Holmes touched Miss Bassano's hand slightly to get her attention, and gestured for her to follow him. To her surprise, the alcove that had sheltered them contained a door, through which they slipped quietly into the abandoned hallways of Moran's sprawling residence.

"What are we doing here?" she whispered, although a terrible suspicion had begun to form at the pit of her stomach.

"We are going to find evidence," Holmes stated matter-of-factly, striding confidently along strange hallways in pursuit of something only he could recognize.

"This is burglary, Holmes, nothing less than burglary!" Miss Bassano hissed, struggling to keep up with Holmes' pace. "You are sinking to crime!"

Holmes said nothing in response as he ducked in and out of rooms, his senses alert. Something grabbed his attention, and grasping Miss Bassano's hand, he pulled her into one of the rooms, closing the door behind them. The curtains were drawn, and a soft crepuscular light filtered through them, illuminating the room's contents. It was a study, with book cases and a writing desk strewn with paper. Holmes shuffled through the papers, his mouth set in determined concentration. Every drawer and pigeon-hole was emptied of its contents, followed by grunts of satisfaction or growls of frustration from the intent detective. Stuffed into the very back of one of the compartments was a manila envelope, sealed with a dark red ribbon tie. As Holmes eviscerated its contents, he snarled in anger. The papers were filed with illegible scrawls, the origin of which he could not recognize.

Miss Bassano, who had slowly inched toward the desk until she stood looking over Holmes' shoulder, reached over and snatched them from his grasp.

"This will be the evidence you seek," she said, skimming the papers with a casual glance.

"How do you know?" Holmes asked, swiftly turning around, and finding Miss Bassano standing rather closer than he had calculated in his mind.

"It's in Arabic, and is addressed to some rather mysterious personages," she answered, still reading the documents. Holmes' stunned silence made her look up, and in response to his mystified face, she said impatiently, "You didn't expect me to have lived in a diplomat's household during the Afghan campaign and not have learned Arabic, did you?"

The word "Afghan" had an unexpected (for Miss Bassano) effect on Holmes, who for a passing moment, appeared almost wistful. Yet he recovered, and turning back to the desk, began passing stray sheets of paper over his shoulder to her. The rest he carefully replaced where he had found them, and artfully shuffled the papers on top of the desk to appear as disorganized as they had initially been.

"Now then," he said to no one in particular when he had finished, "How will we secret all this paper out of here?"

Miss Bassano, without a word, passed the stack of paper to Holmes and reached to the desk, where she grasped a paper knife. Swiftly and silently, she opened her overcoat and cut the lining inside. Taking back the stack of paper, she distributed it evenly along the bottom of the heavy woollen garment. Straightening back up, she replaced the paper knife and buttoned her coat. "The real question is, how will we extricate ourselves if we are discovered?" she inquired, rearranging the black veil over her face.

With his right hand, Holmes slid the shining handle of a small handgun out of his left sleeve.

"A revolver? How vulgar," she parroted his earlier expression, but did not protest further, as she followed him back out into the hall.

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Back in their tiny shared flat, Miss Bassano handed the stolen documents to Holmes, who deposited them on the table. "You will send them to your uncle," he commanded, and turned to his room once again. Miss Bassano sat down by the window, repairing the damage to the lining of her overcoat with a needle and thread. Some minutes later, Holmes re-emerged, carrying a travelling case in one hand, and his hat in the other.

"Going somewhere?" Miss Bassano inquired acidly.

"If I cannot apprehend the criminal," he sighed, "then I must work to undo the damage the crime has wrought."

"And you intend to do this by..." she prompted, still working her sewing.

"By going to Mecca," he stated flatly.

Miss Bassano looked up, tilted her head and raised her eyebrow, the combined angle of which were meant to inform Holmes that she felt his decision to be one of surpassing idiocy. "Mecca," she began, "is a sacred city. Heathens who enter will be killed on site."

"You may recall," Holmes said with some impatience, "that I have been hired by the British government as a spy, and is it not a spy's business to go into forbidden locations?" Miss Bassano had no answer for this logical argument, and Holmes went on. "You may also recall that I spent two years in Lhassa, another feat supposed by many to be impossible." He placed his hat on his head, and touched the brim, bowing his head slightly. "Good day, madam." As the door closed behind him, Miss Bassano threw her sewing down with a little scream of frustration.

_Next week: Miss Bassano tells Holmes what she really thinks. Review!!!_


	22. The Sheik of Araby

**Chapter 22 **

_Author's Notes: Thank you Masked Phantom (yes he does, and you will see why), L'Wren (is this update soon enough for you?), Haley Macrae (much love), Xena (ditto), and a warm welcome to violavampire (you asked for sparks, you got sparks). In terms of caveats for this chapter, the more research I do for this story, the clearer it becomes that our modern political climate owes a great deal to the screw-ups of the nineteenth century. And I find it ironic that many of the situations echo our own. Miss Bassano's sentiments about the Dead Diplomat in the last chapter, for example, mirror some of the feelings about Yasser Arafat on the occasion of his recent funeral. Some background (here's your history lesson, kids!): Sudan had been under Egyptian control. Egypt itself had been under British military occupation since the building of the Suez Canal. The English grip loosened, and the Mahdists, a Muslim nationalist militant group, rebelled. General Gordon was sent in to quell the rebellion, but without adequate resources, he was killed in 1884. Sudan was placed under a brutal and oppressive regime (I am only quoting the historians, people! Who knows, maybe they had legitimate concerns!) but was finally reconquered by the British in 1896, under Kitchener. The British were scandalised by reports of Europeans kept prisoner, and were concerned that if they didn't conquer the Sudan, the Italians or French would. The kingdom of Brunei was a British protectorate at this time, and I assume the Sultan had a yacht. Holmes' quote comes from the last chapter of the Sign of Four. Sheik Muhammed is a figment of my imagination. The title of this chapter is from a very amusing song of the same title, which I know in the rendition of the Beatles, available on the Beatles Anthology I._

Though he had not yet fully reached consciousness, Holmes was dimly aware that he was waking up in a different place than he had fallen asleep. The question that immediately followed was, had he fallen asleep at all? As his senses returned to him, he relished in the softness and warmth that surrounded his body. Though he had chosen a life in which he could not afford many such luxuries, he valued them nonetheless. Certainly these circumstances were vastly superior to those he had so recently experienced.

There was no sense of foreboding then, as he opened his eyes. The sight which was revealed to him was surprising. He was in a bed, in a small wood-panelled room. Curtains were drawn over the narrow window, and – perhaps most surprising of all – in a chair in the corner was the sleeping form of Miss Bassano.

Holmes drew himself up in the bed, and with the effort, discovered aches which he had not remembered. The sound of the rustling bedsheets caused Miss Bassano to stir, but not to wake. The heavy woollen shawl that covered her shoulders slipped slightly. She had curled up in the chair so that her head almost rested on her knees. A strand of hair had fallen over her face, and moved in time with her breath.

_Here we are again_, Holmes thought. He considered his options. Clearly, he had underestimated the little woman's resourcefulness, and was once again in her debt. He sighed heavily, and coughed once, loudly, to wake her.

Miss Bassano woke with a start. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, looking around. Holmes watched her from the bed as she got up and rolled her head slightly, working out the soreness. Ignoring him completely, she slipped her stockinged feet into her shoes, and walked over to the basin under the window. She opened the curtains, and white light streamed into the room. Bending over, she rinsed her face of sleep, dried it with a towel, and turned toward Holmes. Holmes found the look in her eyes unnerving, and the sense of foreboding he had dismissed earlier settled in him, sending a thrill of danger through the nerves of his body. She sat on the edge of the bed, and quietly asked, "Now then, Mr Holmes, do you care to explain yourself?"

The inquiry, like almost everything else Miss Bassano had ever said to him, took Holmes aback. "I should like to know where I am, for a start," he answered courteously, though it was not an answer at all.

Miss Bassano took a deep breath, as though this was just the lead she had anticipated. "You are on the yacht of the Sultan of Brunei," she answered. "His Majesty has kindly lent it to me for the express purpose of extricating you from your," she paused, looking for the right word, "_predicament_. He has done no little work himself on your behalf, as have highly placed individuals around the world."

"As have you," Holmes added gratefully, sensing anger in her tone.

"I am the least of your worries, Mr Holmes," she answered sharply. "There is no excuse for your foolhardiness, and you have not achieved any result which would alleviate the political crisis you have caused. Ministers in the great capitals of the world are now working to undo the damage you have wrought with your rash actions."

Holmes' expression hardened and he narrowed his eyes. Darkly, he said, "When you have finished your appalling hyperbole, will you see to some breakfast?" His tone was icy, but it incensed Miss Bassano to such a degree that he received a stinging slap across the cheek in response. The sound of it made them both freeze. For a moment, they stared at each other, fury meeting fury. In unison, as though images in a mirror, both parties withdrew, crossing their arms, with fires of anger and shame mingling in their faces. Minutes crept by; Miss Bassano dropped her gaze first.

As the heat subsided in him, Holmes saw her more clearly. She was looking down, her eyelashes touching the curve in her cheek. There were dark circles under her eyes, and lines around her mouth he had not seen before. Her hands, which had so struck him at their first meeting, had lost some of the plumpness that had made them so soft. They were clenched into fists in her lap, and her knuckles sharply assaulted the thin skin above them. _I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgement_, he thought, bitterly remembering his words to Watson. He extracted one long, thin hand out of the sheets and extended it to cover Miss Bassano's angry fists. The touch startled her, and she looked back up at him, her black eyes flashing. The glance they exchanged was one of mutual apology.

"What did you really hope to accomplish?" she asked him pleadingly.

Though it would win him no accolades, Holmes began his tale. "When I left you that afternoon, I had already formed suspicions in my mind of the dangerous plots fomented by Moran and his accomplices. I made my way back to the funeral, and ingratiated myself with the dignitaries who had corresponded with Moran. I had anticipated a long process of elimination, but it was soon clear which of them was most involved. Sheik Muhammed was too belligerent, too deprecating of the Empire not to have been somehow involved.

"I followed him under the guise of an eager explorer. I expressed interest in the customs of his people, and he was only too happy to show me anything I liked, so confident was he in the defeat of the English. The disguise served me well, and soon I was installed in his palace, invited to be present at his side. Life at his court bored me; the ceremony and etiquette made every day seem like a week. But I waited, knowing that my chance would come.

"One day, quite unexpectedly, the Sheik announced to me that I would have the rare and special honour of travelling in his entourage to a festival. I confess, I was ill-prepared for this mission, and did not know of the many customs that make up the religious calendar of Islam. I did not know what Mecca symbolised.

"Clothed only in lengths of white cloth, we approached the city. There were streams of pilgrims, and their crude tent encampments stretched for miles into the desert. The smell of smoke and sweat hung in the air. My patron's party did not pause to rest outside the city gates. I was taken up to the head of the procession, and walked alongside the Sheik himself until we reached the high brick walls.

"We were met with another procession, the head of which exchanged words with the Sheik in Arabic. Though I did not understand the words, it was clear to me that they were well-rehearsed. Several times, the Sheik gestured at me, and the crowd became restless. I sensed danger, but could do nothing.

I expect that I was denounced as a heathen, a traitorous infiltrator from the outside. My European countenance was enough to prove my guilt to the crowd, and yet I was not harmed. I was removed to a cell, where for many days I contemplated my fate. It was clear enough that their religious laws forbade them to harm me on their holy days. Yet, what was to befall me when the festival was over?

"The reason for the Sheik's betrayal was revealed to me in time. At the end of the festival, I was taken from my place of captivity to face a new audience. The Sheik and the head of the earlier procession were there, but there was another whom I recognised immediately. He was the Khalifa, the leader of the Sudanese rebels, sworn enemy of Britain. The Sheik had plotted this all along – I would be given to the Mahdists as a prisoner, and used to feed the nationalist fervour in the Sudan.

"In the following weeks, I had much time to reflect. I was transported to Khartoum, and although I was occasionally paraded out, accompanied by speeches that I presumed to be about the British disregard for Islam, and the importance of further rebellion, I was mostly left on my own in a small prison cell. I reached the conclusion that Moran had been playing cat-and-mouse with the Sheik. Perhaps he desired more intrigue in his old age, and made promises that his death made clear he was not willing to fulfil. In me, the Sheik saw his opportunity for revenge. I expect I was useful for a time. Eventually, though, they stopped coming for me. I was left without food, presumably to die."

Miss Bassano nodded. "I thought as much. When the documents you recovered were examined, it was clear that Sir Augustus did not intend treason. My uncle remembers him as an inveterate gambler, so perhaps it was the instinct which drove him to play the game. Or perhaps it was elderly dementia that made him contradict himself and forget important details. In any case, he had never really posed a threat to Britain. We wanted to contact you," she said earnestly, "but you had disappeared. Uncle exhausted nearly every avenue looking for you, until word reached us of a disturbance at Mecca. When that was followed by reports of riots in Khartoum, we knew that you were somehow involved." Miss Bassano was wringing her hands, reliving the anxiety of those days. "It was quite out of the question for the British government to be directly involved. That would only have aggravated the situation. In desperation, we turned to Lord Lansdowne, whose political instincts are quite possibly the greatest of anyone I have ever met. He suggested that we contact the Sultan of Brunei. Being a fellow Muslim, he urged the Khalifa to at least spare your life. The Khalifa replied that he would do nothing to explicitly harm you. I played the part of the pleading widow, desperate to retrieve your corpse."

"Did you think I was already dead?" Holmes asked incredulously.

"As it happens, Mr Holmes, you are dead. At least the Mahdists believe you to be. Your rescuers were forced to knock you unconscious to ensure that the illusion was kept up." She smiled wryly. "I have, of course, been happily reassured of your extraordinarily resilient life force. But perhaps the universal delusion of your tragic demise is for the best."

Holmes snorted. "It seems my efforts have caused a great deal more trouble than I had anticipated."

Miss Bassano covered her face with her hands for a moment, and then looked back at him. "It is not a spy's job to act. It is a spy's job to observe."

Holmes brightened. "But I have observed!" he exclaimed. "I did not merely languish in incarceration."

"What did you observe?" Miss Bassano asked dubiously.

"I observed chaos. The country is starving and the government is unstable. Why else would they have needed such desperate measures to buoy their support?"

Miss Bassano nodded. "That is true. You were not the first European prisoner, and you will not be the last, of that I am certain. So the empire still has a chance in the Sudan? Kitchener will be pleased to hear it," she mused.

"I will be glad to tell him all I know," Holmes volunteered.

"You cannot be involved any longer," Miss Bassano said with a kind of finality which suggested that the decision had been made long before. "You will detail your report, of course, but your involvement cannot be known."

The frustration which had built up inside of Holmes over two and a half years burst through to the surface. "I cannot be Sherlock Holmes, detective, for the world presumes me dead. I cannot be George Altamont, spy, for the government needs me dead. What am I to do?"

"Oh no," Miss Bassano soothed him. "You can still be George Altamont, it's just that you will no longer have the protection of the government. But you will have the anonymity you desire." She smiled reassuringly. "You will have freedom, too," she said, though it was clear that it was she who desired it more.

"Freedom to do what?" Holmes sighed in sulking, dramatic tones.

"Surely there must be some interest that you have desired to pursue, but previously could not because you were otherwise occupied?" Miss Bassano cajoled.

Holmes thought it through, carefully. Slowly, he said, "I did at one point receive an invitation to conduct chemical research at the University of Montpellier. It seems," he said, not without pride, "that they were impressed with one or two trifling monographs I had written."

Miss Bassano clapped her hands. "France! Excellent. I shall inform the captain to set a course."

She stood to leave, but Holmes touched her hand. "Could you possibly see to some breakfast?" he said, almost contritely. Immediately, she reached for a bell-pull at the side of the bed. Moments later, a servant in white carried in a steaming tray with breakfast. Holmes had begun eating before the liveried boy had left the room.

"I say, Mrs Altamont," Holmes exclaimed jovially, "this is excellent bacon!"

"It had better be," she replied sourly. "It's contraband. Pork on a Muslim ship!" she clucked. "How I'm going to explain this to the Sultan, I don't know. It's always something criminal with you, isn't it?" But there was a smile playing about her lips, and Holmes was satisfied to see that all traces of the frown that had marred her features so recently had disappeared.

_Next time: Connubial bliss is interrupted by disturbing news from home. Review!_


	23. Seeing Things

**Chapter 23**

_Author's Notes: I had a lot of anxiety about the last chapter, and that's mainly because while you guys are reading it and practising willing suspension of disbelief, I am making difficult choices about where this story will go. So I think a little explanation is in order, even though real authors don't have author's notes in which they can write such apologetics. Yes, Haley is quite right, that was stupidity on Holmes' part; however, (and this is where mierin-lanfear's comment about historical facts comes in) he absolutely has to fail in this mission. If Holmes really was spying during his hiatus (and given the real-life situations on each of the locales he says he visited, he more or less had to have been engaging in work for the government, not just in Khartoum), he had the potential to change history, and we can't have that. The cardinal rule of fiction: It isn't non-fiction! Plus, if he had a stellar career as a spy, there wouldn't have been any reason for him to return to London and continue his detective work. He would have had bigger fish to fry. But he failed, and was sent back to London with his tail between his legs. And I think that this is the reason he's so bitter about his work after his return. And L'Wren, he absolutely deserved it. I think that while Holmes can be very charismatic and charming, and even a consummate gentleman, once his pride is wounded, he becomes very cold indeed. Besides which, I don't think he has many social skills, which is why he and Miss Bassano are so eminently well-matched. If she was a Mary Morstan, conventional type of woman, we would have none of the fireworks that we do. Miss B. calls him on his B.S., and god knows, sometimes he needs it!_

_You can see the majority of the Saint-Guilhelm Cloister in New York. The Metropolitan Museum of Art acquired the fragments for its Cloisters branch on Fort Tryon Park in 1925, something the French are still bitter about. This chapter is slightly AU in the sense that it's a bit of a crossover with the Detective Murdoch Mysteries, which I highly recommend, and not just because I'm Canadian and a fan of Victorian melodrama. His appearance is pure indulgence on my part, but since there is not yet a Detective Murdoch fanfiction category, he will have to play here. The lyrics at the end are my personal translation of Ochi Chernye; one of the few things I share with Miss Bassano is fluency in Russian._

The journey from Marseilles to Montpellier was pleasant, and soon, thanks to Holmes' fluent French and considerable charm, Mr and Mrs Altamont were installed in a small corner house on a quiet street. Their abode was comfortable, despite its having been built in the late Middle Ages, and their housekeeper was efficient, though her wizened face suggested a similar vintage. By Christmas, Holmes was happily developing new uses for coal-tar and its derivatives at the small laboratory attached to Montpellier's medieval university.

Miss Bassano's days were not wasted, either. She put her considerable energy into exploring the countryside, departing often on short day-trips to visit nearby Roman and Gothic ruins. Though she frequently joked that she had seen more Romanesque architecture than Charlemagne himself, she continued her journeys with enthusiasm. She seemed happiest when given her independence, and though it may not have been conventional in frigid England, her solitary adventures seemed quite natural in the relative warmth of the South of France.

Sometime in late March, when the trees were once again clothed in green, and the sun gave a golden glow to the countryside, Miss Bassano suggested a joint excursion in Holmes' company. The latest round of tests at the lab had gone well, and Holmes' spirits were high. He thus happily agreed to accompany her to the abbey shrine of Saint-Guilhelm-le-Desert, some hours north of Montpellier, and one of the major pilgrimage sites on the road to Santiago de Compostela.

Sparsely vegetated cliffs cradled this small community, whose streets seemed unchanged since the twelfth century. The limestone walls of the abbey, glinting alternatively white, grey, and rose in the sunlight had the simplicity of decoration which appealed to Holmes' ascetic soul. The high, narrow nave of the church, with simple brickwork truly aided contemplation, and the sparse interiors of the rounded chapels seemed marvels of ancient building. While he admired the dark inner spaces, Miss Bassano ventured outside, and perched on the ruins of a marble fountain in the cloister. Squinting into the sunlight, she admired the variegated pairs of columns, of different shapes and stones, but all topped with lavish acanthus leaves. The early spring herbs and flowers waved softly in the breeze.

Her solitude was interrupted, however, by the entrance of a man dressed in black. He had a broad forehead, fair hair, and striking eyes of a pure sky-blue. His brow was well-formed and gave him the appearance of a thoughtful and sympathetic individual. He tipped his hat to Miss Bassano, and she nodded, giving him a small wave of her hand. He continued walking, but as he passed her on the narrow path in the small garden, he stumbled and nearly knocked Miss Bassano off her seat.

"Excuse me," he stammered, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"That's quite alright," Miss Bassano said graciously, hardly believing her ears.

"You're English?" the man questioned, shocked.

"Indeed," Miss Bassano replied. "And you?" she asked, as his accent was not quite like anything she had ever heard.

"I am from Canada," he replied, and in his accent she heard the slight lilt of an Irishman. He lifted his hat again and extended his hand. "Detective William Murdoch of Toronto, ma'am."

"It is rather far away to be investigating crime, isn't it?" she asked, smiling.

The young detective looked down uncomfortably. "No ma'am. I mean, yes, it is far away, but I am not here on an investigation."

"I see," Miss Bassano said gently, aware that she had touched a nerve.

"My fiancee died recently," Murdoch confessed quietly, still looking down at the ground in front of him, "and my priest thought it would be helpful if I were to go away, on a pilgrimage."

"And has it been helpful?" Miss Bassano inquired.

Murdoch looked at her, his blue eyes filled with grief. "Not very, ma'am."

"My husband," Miss Bassano stated confidently, "is of the opinion that work is the best antidote for painful emotions." She looked past Murdoch and saw the advancing figure of the man in question. "Here he comes now," she said, standing up. In a few long strides, Holmes reached the pair, and appraised Murdoch with a single critical glance.

"This is Detective Murdoch from Canada," Miss Bassano told Holmes. "Mr Murdoch, this is my husband, George Altamont. He is an amateur detective himself."

"Really?" Murdoch looked at him with interest. "Have you ever met Sherlock Holmes?"

The question was naive, but Holmes positively glowed with pride. "I have had that honour," he answered.

"Tell me, is it true that Scotland Yard relies on his methods for some of their difficult cases?" Murdoch asked eagerly.

Holmes' reply was measured. "I believe they rely more on him than on his methods," he said.

"Yes," the younger man nodded. "The police force is certainly very conservative. It is at once painful and a relief to hear that it is not just my superiors who are dubious of the new sciences of deduction."

Miss Bassano looked on in amusement as Holmes' demeanour changed instantly. "Which of the sciences interest you most?" he asked keenly.

"The science of fingerprinting," Murdoch answered without hesitation. "I am also glad of the support of the coroner's office, which often provide me with invaluable advice on the nature of the crimes committed."

Holmes nodded. "It is important to have access to any useful information in such cases, as often the evidence is so small as to be considered insignificant by others." He looked up at the sky, where rain clouds were gathering and suddenly collected himself. "I wish you luck in your career, Mr Murdoch," he abruptly said, bowing slightly. "No doubt we will hear more of you in the future." He offered Miss Bassano his arm, and she took it, smiling at the baffled Murdoch. "I hope you have a safe journey home, Mr Murdoch. Remember, this too shall pass." The pair turned and walked into the shelter of the church, leaving behind an oddly comforted Murdoch, who had found new strength and inspiration in an unexpected place.

The rain clouds that Holmes had seen collected into storm clouds, and by the time he and Miss Bassano returned to their little house in Montpellier, water was rushing in heavy currents in the gutters and downspouts. In the front room, on a table by the warmly dancing flames in the lit fireplace, lay a stack of newspapers and letters. Miss Bassano passed the papers to Holmes, who settled in an armchair to read. Having sorted through the envelopes, she stared at the last unopened letter, absently biting her lower lip.

"Why won't you open it?" Holmes intoned from the chair, though by all appearances, his gaze was completely obscured by the London Times.

Miss Bassano sighed. "Most people are afraid of telegrams," she said, "but this is a letter. And when it comes to my uncle, receiving a letter means much worse news." Still, she grasped the letter knife, and sliced open the seal. She read the contents silently, while the fire crackled in the hearth, and Holmes shuffled the paper. When she had finished, she put it down and put her hands in her lap, as was her custom.

"It is from Uncle," she began.

"So you said," Holmes reminded her impatiently.

"He writes that the Ministry were not understanding about the kidnapping in Sudan. He has been forced to resign."

A sort of questioning noise came from Holmes, and she continued. "Your brother warned me, even when you first came, that his career could not stand any more scandal. I suppose it was true."

"What will he do?" Holmes asked, turning a page.

Miss Bassano shrugged. "I suppose he will return to our house in the country. It seems only natural, though he cannot be happy about it." She sat silently for some time, until the quiet was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from Holmes.

"He has done it!"

He threw the paper down suddenly, and took up another. Quickly leafing through the pages, he found what he was looking for and read it eagerly. "The Bagatelle Club, of course!" he muttered excitedly, tapping his place in the paper with the back of his open palm. His grey eyes were lucid as he looked at Miss Bassano. "He has laid himself open, and I must give him no doubt that he will be caught."

"You will go back to England?" Miss Bassano queried.

Holmes looked confused for a moment. "I had hoped that you would join me. It may be interesting for you."

She smiled, a trifle sadly, and her answer was no answer at all. "I suppose Uncle will want my help," she said.

"Good!" Holmes exclaimed, jumping up from his chair. "Then we must pack. We will go to Grenoble."

"Grenoble?" she repeated, amazed.

"I must pay a visit to an artist of some renown, whose work I will be useful to me in this case," Holmes said mysteriously.

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Some days later, in possession of a remarkably life-like waxwork replica of Holmes' hawk-like profile, the pair was finally on a ferry bound for England from Calais. It was a blustery day, and the passengers huddled inside, sheltered from the harsh winds. Holmes and Miss Bassano had seated themselves by a group of musicians; with her usual forthright manner, Miss Bassano quickly ascertained that they were Russian Gypsies, bound to try their luck in the music-halls of London. Soon, as the winds made the waves swell and the boat was tossed from side to side, the ensemble was persuaded to buoy the spirits of their fellow passengers by performing. The singer's low, seductive voice filled the cabin, as the guitars and tambourines played an infectious rhythm. Miss Bassano, whose knowledge of foreign tongues evidently extended to Russian as well, was kind enough to translate some of the lyrics for Holmes. The passengers soon forgot the weather and the time, and everyone regretted it when the ferry finally docked at Dover.

Their luggage sorted out, Miss Bassano and Holmes stood at the train platform, ready to say their goodbyes. As they travelled up from Montpellier, he had told her of his plan to catch Moran once and for all. The more he spoke, the clearer it became to both of them that London was where he belonged. His keen and penetrating mind was best suited to the minutia of the criminal underworld, not to the political machinations of empires abroad. Miss Bassano's plans had been clear all along. She would take up residence with her uncle, caring for him in his retirement in their family home in Sussex. It was there that she was headed now.

Holmes took her hand, squeezed it gently, and bowed. She nodded her head and smiled that sad smile he had seen at their first meeting. As though reading his thoughts, she said, "We will meet again soon." He released her hand, and she turned to walk along the train to her reserved carriage.

As he watched her walk away, the ascending notes of the gypsy song filled Holmes' head like the steam that presently filled the station:

_Dark eyes, passionate eyes,_

_Flaming eyes, beautiful eyes,_

_How I love you;_

_How I fear you;_

_In evil hour did I see you._

"My mistress' eyes," he whispered softly.


	24. Sussex Downs

**Chapter 24**

_Author's Notes: Thank you to mierin-lanfear, for the best review ever. Haley Macrae, they could, but they won't, as there's only one more chapter to go. This story is called The Great Hiatus, not the Great Never-Ending Sherlock Holmes and Miss Bassano Epic. Masked Pahntom: Thank you for that succint synopsis of the last chapter. Manor Farm is inspired by Glynde Place, built in 1589 from Normandy stone. You can see a picture of it on the Sussex Tourism website. Check out Fulworth in the Sherlock Holmes Atlas for a contemporary photo of the Channel Coast._

Centuries of wind and weather had worn the facade of Manor Farm to a sombre grey that not even the sunlight could warm into a friendly sight. The branches of ivy that embraced the stone features would have been rustic on any other building, but here it looked sinister, like serpents uncoiling to devour their prey. The leaded windows, filled with sharp slivers of glass, were black inside; they had been made to look out of, not into. Looking at the house, Miss Bassano, who had been away from her ancestral home for nearly a decade, was seized with melancholy. Il Tatti, the borrowed flat in Jerusalem, even the little corner house in Marseilles, were all a world away from the Elizabethan pile which towered before her like a reprimanding parent. She fought the urge to cross herself before entering.

Divested of her hat, gloves, and coat, Miss Bassano inquired after her uncle, and was directed to the library. Indeed, the stern-faced man was there, trying to find spots on the bookshelves for the boxes of books and manuscripts shipped down from London. He saw her hesitate in the doorway and waved her inside. Gingerly weaving between the piles of packing, she sat down on a leather sofa, close to the fireplace.

"This is all your husband's doing," Sir Edgar grumbled. "Were it not for his infernal meddling, none of this fuss would be necessary."

"He's not really my husband," Miss Bassano demurred. "And you were the one who insisted on finding him an occupation."

Sir Edgar wheeled around sharply to face his niece. "He most certainly is your husband. I saw to that myself."

"Well, George and Martha Altamont are married, yes..." Miss Bassano waved dismissively.

Sir Edgar's eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned in impatience. "And Sherlock Holmes and Beatrice Regina Bassano are married also."

Miss Bassano's face drained of all colour and she looked faint. "What?" she asked softly, her lips barely moving.

"Of course!" Sir Edgar exclaimed. "It had to be done, and quickly. You might have been with child!"

"But I wasn't... I'm not..." Miss Bassano stammered.

"Well, we didn't know that, did we?" Sir Edgar replaced a book on a bookshelf and reached for another in an opened crate.

"You could have asked me," his niece whispered, her lips now white. Sir Edgar disregarded her completely, searching a top bookshelf with his eyes for a companion tome to the one he was holding in his hand. "Does he know?" she asked desperately.

"Hm?"

"Does he know? Is Mr Holmes aware of all this?" Miss Bassano forced the words out with great physical effort.

"If he isn't, he's a fool," opined Sir Edgar. "Damned irresponsible not to look at your own documents."

Pale, and barely able to walk straight, Miss Bassano exited the library, her hands grazing the walls for support. Once in the sanctuary of her bedroom, she sat at the writing desk. She dipped her pen in ink, but her hand was suspended in mid-air over the paper for some time before she began to write.

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Mr Sherlock Holmes

221B Baker Street

London

Dear Mr Holmes,

I have had so much practice with the numerical code you devised during your stay in Tibet, that writing it now seems easy. In fact, I see meaning everywhere. You cannot imagine the unexpected messages contained in a train schedule, or the household accounts.

The papers are filled with your sensational apprehension of that criminal Colonel Moran. No doubt we can all breathe a little easier with his incarceration. I hope that his place will not soon be filled by another, similarly devious criminal.

I wonder if you would consider coming to visit us at Manor Farm when you are between cases. We would be pleased to have you, and I have something which I would discuss with you in person. If you will send a telegram in advance, a driver can meet you at the station.

I look forward to seeing you soon.

Yours,

B. Bassano.

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He took the train to Eastbourne, and was greeted at the station by a familiar face. Holmes recognised the driver Miss Bassano had promised almost immediately. It was the same manservant from Il Tatti, returned to her faithful service in England. He had the same gruff manner as before, but the years had aged him considerably. The two men moved through the crowd of holidaymakers, to the waiting carriage. The sun shone brightly as they drove through the countryside, the fresh spring air delighting the visitor from smoky London.

Manor Farm, Holmes reflected, was quite the opposite of the bucolic retreat its name suggested. The ancient, imposing structure loomed over the countryside, its size proclaiming dominion over its surroundings. Only its red door, set into a pointed archway, showed signs of welcome.

Miss Bassano waited for him in the drawing room. Her face, Holmes saw, was pinched and tired. Still, she managed a friendly smile and invited him to sit across from her.

"You look well," he lied.

"As do you," she returned.

"Your uncle is well, I trust?" he inquired.

"Uncle has been called to London on business, else he would have welcomed you himself."

"I thought he was retired now," Holmes said, confused.

"He is indeed, but on occasion, the ministry requires him to advise on certain delicate matters," Miss Bassano explained.

"And you do not join him on these trips to London?"

Miss Bassano shook her head. "Alas, Uncle prefers to travel alone."

"So how do you occupy yourself in his absence?" Holmes asked.

"I walk a great deal. There are many cottages on our property, and I have taken to visiting the tenants, and inspecting their circumstances. I daresay it is more attention than they have received from their landlords in centuries," she said ruefully. "There is one vacant cottage by the sea, on the very boundary of our land; we haven't been able to rent it to anyone, though I can't understand why. I don't really mind, of course. I like to visit there whenever I need to escape Manor Farm." She looked up suddenly. "Would you like to see it? It's very picturesque."

Holmes acquiesced readily, and soon they were walking toward a small cottage, whose white walls gleamed against the green grass. He held the gate for her, and she opened the door inside. The furniture did perhaps have a lingering scent of damp, but the air was not stale, and Miss Bassano's ready actions in starting a fire in the small cast-iron stove told him she had done it many more times than she would admit to.

The cottage was comfortably equipped inside. It was fully furnished, and besides the stove, the front room had two sofas, occasional chairs, tables, and even bookcases, all conveniently arranged into a vision of home. The window in the front room looked back onto the rolling South Downs, but as Holmes walked through to the back of the house, he understood what Miss Bassano had meant when she called the cottage picturesque. From these windows, a vista to the rocky coastline opened up before him. Nothing but the curves of the white cliffs blocked the blue of the Channel. Just before the house was a garden, which though narrow, extended almost all the way down to the rocky path which wound along the coastline. Flowering bushes and plants embraced the fence on both sides, the blossoms nodding in time with the ocean breeze. Holmes, whose preferred vistas up to that point had been the terraced houses of Central London, blackened by soot and smoke, found it hard to look away.

He reached for a cigarette, and lit it, thus distracting himself. Miss Bassano was watching him, and for a moment, it appeared as though she had a small, wicked smile on her face. The illusion vanished, however, as Holmes sat across from her and said, "I believe there was something you wished to discuss with me."

Miss Bassano flushed and turned pale in turns. She looked down at the floor, and only her hands showed signs of her inner agitation. She stood up and unlocked a desk with a small key from her keychain. From the otherwise empty space, she retrieved a large folder, and silently handed it to Holmes. Not bearing to watch as he opened it, she turned to the window.

Holmes unfastened the ribbon tie and unfolded the heavy green paper to reveal the contents of the folder. There were only two sheets of paper inside, identical in size and format. They were marriage certificates, signed, dated, and sealed in the official manner. The top copy was familiar enough – It witnessed the marriage of George and Martha Altamont. The second one, however...

"I'm so sorry!" Miss Bassano exclaimed. She turned around, and her face was more drawn and tortured than ever. "I didn't know. I hardly remember that day, and Uncle said it was irresponsible, but I didn't think..." She trailed off and sank into a soft chair, covering her face with her left hand.

Holmes coolly examined the papers, holding them up to the light to check their watermark. Returning them to the folder, he carefully tied the ribbons, and laid it aside.

"I just don't know what to do," Miss Bassano sighed in quiet desperation.

"Do you need to do anything?" Holmes asked. Miss Bassano looked up at him in surprise and confusion. "Surely, your Uncle meant well," he suggested.

"Yes, of course... But you can't have a wife, not really!" she cried.

"Why ever not?" Holmes asked, throwing the last of his cigarette in the grate of the black stove. Miss Bassano's eyes darted wildly across the room, as if in search for answers. They did not come. "It seems that I have had a wife for the last three years, and it has not been such an unbearable burden," Holmes continued.

Miss Bassano, stunned, now covered her face with both hands. Holmes reached over and touched her shoulder with his long fingertips. "This has upset you," he said. "Let us not speak of it any more."

His companion dropped her hands and straightened her back. Confusion still played upon her features, but something in his tone or his gestures had calmed her. She nodded, her dark eyes fixed upon Holmes in solemn promise.

Holmes stood up and walked back towards the window which offered a view of the Channel. "You need not worry about finding a tenant for this cottage," he called to her. "You may inform you Uncle it has been occupied."

A few days later, Miss Bassano received a letter in the morning post. As she opened the envelope, a small gold band fell out. On the note which accompanied it, the familiar handwriting explained:

_I believe this belongs to you._


	25. Find Peace

**Chapter 25**

_Well, this is it, folks! Thanks for sticking around and faithfully reviewing. Sherlock and Miss Bassano will be back, I promise. You can read the sequels sometime in the new year. If you've followed this story, please review and let me know what you thought. I do love reviews, as Haley Macrae (my most faithful reviewer) knows. In the meantime, I plan a play date with another tall, thin, and tortured fictional character, this time in the Harry Potter category. Watch for that soon. And what better way to end this fanfiction than in the words of Dr Watson?_

It was in the autumn of the year 1894, and I sat with my friend Sherlock Holmes in our old rooms at Baker Street. News of his return had caused a sensation in London, and his services were constantly requested in matters of unsolved crime. With his usual sharp manner, Holmes would dismiss the ones which did not interest him personally, preferring to focus his energies on cases which allowed him to put his logical and creative faculties to good use. It was just such a case from which he had recently returned, and he related its more pertinent details to me as we sat in our customary places.

His pipe and his story ended at the same time, and my friend languorously stood from his seat, emptying the ashes into the fireplace. He moved to his desk, in the locked front drawer of which I had known him to store the vile drug in which he indulged. I had spent many years trying to convince him to give up the habit, and I was loath to see him in its devilish grip so soon after his return to the world of the living.

"Surely you will not return to the use of cocaine, Holmes!" I exclaimed as he inserted a small key into the lock.

He smiled at me as he extracted not the long needle-case, but a leather pouch of tobacco from the drawer.

"I have come around to your way of thinking, my dear Doctor," he said as he calmly transferred the contents of the pouch into the Persian slipper on the mantelpiece. "I no longer rely on cocaine for my recreation."

"I am delighted to hear it," I cried. "So you have at last chosen a more wholesome way of distracting your mind?"

"Yes," Holmes nodded. "I have taken a cottage on the South Downs, and intend to escape there between cases. I have found the fresh air and sunlight to have restorative properties."

"Indeed," I said, amazed at this change in my friend's attitude.

"You may join me on my next sojourn there, if your schedule permits it."

"I would be honoured," I accepted.

So it was that several weeks later I found myself in Holmes' small cottage on the edge of the Channel. We sat in companionable silence in the front room, my friend's long, thin body stretched across the sofa, his eyes closed dreamily. The quiet was interrupted occasionally by the intermittent crackle of the logs in the cast-iron stove.

A noise came from outside, as the wooden gate which led to the cottage's front garden creaked and closed. Holmes' eyes flew open, and he was at the door before a knock had even sounded. The visitor was slightly obscured by Holmes' lanky figure at first, but as he stepped aside, I saw that it was a woman. Next to my friend, she seemed small indeed, but I guessed her height to be just over five feet. She had black hair and eyes; the latter seemed intelligent and lively. Her cheeks were flushed attractively from walking in the crisp autumn wind, and she looked to be about thirty.

"I've just learned of your arrival," she said to Holmes. "I didn't realise you had a visitor," she added, nodding graciously to me.

"Indeed," said Holmes. "This is my friend and colleague Dr Watson, come to visit me from London. Watson, this is my landlady, Miss Beatrice Bassano."

I stepped forward to shake her hand. "Is that Bassano, like the society photographer?" I inquired.

"No relation, I'm afraid," she smiled in reply.

"May I take your coat?" Holmes asked.

"No thank you, I shall not stay long. I merely came to inquire whether you would join us up at the house for dinner this evening. Dr Watson is also invited, of course. It's very informal, just some old friends and—" she smiled again in my direction, "—some new ones. Will you consider coming?"

Holmes and I exchanged glances, surprised at this hospitality. "Dr Watson and I will be pleased to attend," Holmes said.

"Good," Miss Bassano exclaimed. She turned to leave, but paused at the door. "I will send Abigail with some fresh linens for Dr Watson's bed. See you tonight!" She was certainly a very charming woman, and I was pleased that Holmes had been so easily accepted into her company. Though my old friend usually shunned female society, I hoped that his acceptance of Miss Bassano's invitation was a sign of the change in his cold and isolated heart.

Dinner was an entertaining affair. Miss Bassano's uncle, Sir Edgar Smith presided over the table, and though his manner was that of one accustomed to power over men, he was gracious and welcoming to his guests. Our hostess had also invited several masters from a nearby coaching establishment. Holmes, never a man to make friends easily, seemed to genuinely enjoy the company of their director, one Harold Stackhurst. The conversation flowed easily all night, and when we had at last retired back to the little cottage, I was certain that Holmes could only flourish in such surroundings. There, on the Downs, far from London's criminal underworld, Sherlock Holmes could at last find peace.


End file.
